


Hurricane Season

by thingsbaker



Category: Star Trek: Alternate Original Series (Movies)
Genre: Alternate Universe, M/M, Silicon Valley sybok, Weather, also mild mentions of hostile workplace and harrassment, seriously this is a weather channel AU
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-04-28
Updated: 2020-04-28
Packaged: 2021-03-01 17:06:53
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 23
Words: 100,558
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/23730538
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thingsbaker/pseuds/thingsbaker
Summary: There are two teams of meteorologists at the Federation Weather Network: Spock's team, which spends its time in the lab building sophisticated climate models, and Jim Kirk's team, which seems to always be filming live from the middle of a tornado. Here's how they stopped stepping on each other's toes when their leaders started falling in love.OR: The weather-channel-anchor love story AU that literally no one but me ever asked for.
Relationships: James T. Kirk & Leonard "Bones" McCoy, James T. Kirk & Winona Kirk, James T. Kirk/Spock, Sarek & Spock, Spock & Nyota Uhura, Spock & Sybok, Spock & T'Pring (Star Trek)
Comments: 47
Kudos: 158





	1. Chapter 1

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> hey, so, how'd you spend your pandemic time? was it by reviewing old works you swore you'd never post and then realizing, eh, might as well, if ever there was a time for a soft little romantic comedy about harmless traveling weathermen being awkward and falling in love, maybe it's today?
> 
> no? just me? ok then.
> 
> Anyway here's the story. thank you for reading it. stay home! watch the weather channel!

“Don’t look now,” Nyota said, voice low and already annoyed, “but the cowboys are back.”

Spock did not look. He didn’t need to: he could already hear them as they crossed the wide room where the Federation Weather Network accommodated its two chief meteorological teams. One of these teams was Spock’s own four-person squad of dedicated, serious scientists, who kept neat desks under broad and constantly churning displays. They worked near the Lab Deck, where, along the high-tech, screen-covered wall that Spock had helped re-design specifically for their purposes, they ran complicated weather models and climate simulations. These models made up part of Spock’s own solo television show, the hour-long weekend program, _Weather Logic_ , where they used scientific models to make educated guesses about upcoming weather events or climate change effects. Gleaming, cutting-edge screens and models also featured in their team-effort daily late afternoon show, _Live from the Lab Deck_ , where someone from the team anchored an hour of national weather coverage and provided a scientific perspective on the weather news of the day. Spock was, himself, the senior-most meteorologist at FWN, which meant he reported on major events live from the Lab Deck during prime-time broadcasts and had some sway with overall programming. Beyond these duties, in the past two years, his team had published enough research on weather modeling to gain the network a surprising standing among climate scientists and NOAA staff. Though they worked for, yes, a television network, they were scientists first, and when they appeared on air, Spock knew that focus shone through.

Across the room, through a sea of cubicles given to lesser weather-studying mortals, stood the conference room that had been commandeered by the other top team at FWN: Jim Kirk’s team, the cowboys. Kirk worked with a small group of dedicated adventurers. They were rarely in situ; Kirk liked to travel, liked to broadcast live from the middle of “the action,” whether that meant shooting during a lightning storm or sweating through a record-breaking heat wave. Kirk and his photogenic entourage were television stars who happened to have above-average knowledge about the weather. Three current FWN productions starred Kirk or his team: a weekly show about the business effects of the changing climate, called _Enterprise Weather_ ; a half-hour show about weather and health called _MedBay_ ; and an hour-long show on heavy rotation for which Kirk mostly provided voice-overs, _To Boldly Go_ , which recounted historical weather disasters through the eyes of a chosen hero. Kirk’s team had published no scientific research, so far as Spock knew, but Kirk had managed to be a guest, twice, on _The Late Show with Stephen Colbert_ , and he sometimes moonlighted doing weather bits for the Federation Broadcast Network’s major morning shows.

“I am surprised they’re here,” T’Pring said, voice brimming with more than even her usual arch coolness. She was the closest thing Spock had to a co-anchor, basically his second in command; she, Spock, and Stonn, their producer, had met while attending the Vulcan Meteorological School within the Massachusetts Institute of Technology. “I heard there might be a small hailstorm in the suburbs of Cleveland. Surely it merits a live on-air broadcast?”

“You just want to see McCoy nailed by another lightning burst,” Stonn said, and Spock did glance over long enough to see T’Pring’s smirk.

“I would never wish a colleague ill," she said, “though I do wonder if the good doctor might be considered more of an independent contractor.”

Nyota laughed. She was the most recent addition to their team but had already worked with them for three years. Her background was in mass communications and broadcast journalism, with some technical scientific work. She managed the team’s web presence.

“I, too, am surprised to see them back,” Spock said, already calculating how this could be used to their advantage. “This might mean we could run our long-range projections for the Eastern Atlantic tomorrow instead of staying late tonight, as I assume Dr. Kirk will want to be on air in the morning. That should free up our time.”

“For once, I’m glad the man’s a camera-hog,” Nyota said, so softly that Spock barely heard her.

This was a good thing, as only a second later, Jim Kirk’s unwelcome and heavy hand dropped onto his shoulder for a brief shake. “Spock! Hey, you miss me? T’Pring, always a pleasure. Thanks for that warning about the station manager in Tampa — whoo. Handsy.” T’Pring blinked, and Spock estimated a 99 percent chance that she’d never mentioned anything of the sort. In fact, other than frigidly polite encounters at the few staff meetings that Kirk’s team attended, Spock thought it unlikely that substantial conversations had occurred between Kirk and any member of his team in the last twelve months.

Kirk kept going, oblivious and brightly cheerful, as was his way. Dressed casually in jeans, a T-shirt, and an unbuttoned flannel shirt, Spock thought the intern candidates he’d recently interviewed had looked more the part of network anchor than Kirk did. He leaned back against Spock’s desk, his back to most of the room, but turned his face to address Spock’s team. This was further into Spock’s personal space than anyone else ever dared go, and Spock felt slightly too surprised to even react. It wasn’t as though Kirk would pause talking long enough to give him the chance, anyway. “Aw, well. Uhura, good to see you, too. Don’t suppose you were all about to call it a day and join us for a drink?”

“The evening news meeting will begin in 10 minutes,” Spock said, and watched Kirk’s face fall just slightly.

“Damn,” he said, shaking his head. “I thought we’d timed it just right to miss that. Well, maybe if —“

“James T. Kirk!”

Kirk’s eyes fluttered closed for just a moment. Faced away from the room as Kirk was, Spock was the only one who could observe his expression, and he was jarred by the flash of deep exhaustion he saw, as though Kirk’s face were graying before him. Then Kirk straightened and a nearly-camera-ready mask slid right back on. “Admiral Komack!” He whirled, hands flying up as he spoke, charming television persona in place. “Sir, it’s good to see you. I hope we made it back in time for the evening briefing?”

Komack was a jowly, round, pasty white man of nearly 80 years. He had been in charge of FWN for nearly thirty of those years, since it had been an independent weather channel operating mostly in the backwaters of local cable. His family’s money came from television, and he never let anyone forget that he’d been the first to predict that televised and online wall-to-wall weather coverage could turn a tidy profit. He also never let anyone forget his own naval background: he’d retired from the Navy as an admiral, having worked there in the weather corps for a great span of his mostly desk-bound career. This perhaps should have made him an able administrator; instead, it meant Komack enjoyed micromanagement, military-style discipline, and blustery intimidation of his inferiors (of which he counted everyone in the building).

Spock’s own contract included a clause that made Komack’s heir-apparent, his daughter Karen, Spock’s direct supervisor instead of the admiral. Perhaps Kirk had not thought to include such a line.

Then again, Spock thought, watching Komack’s face light in a broad, yellow grin, perhaps Kirk didn’t need it. After all, Komack counted himself an admirer and friend of Kirk’s late, famous father, the actor George Kirk, and as such seemed to have a soft spot for the station’s wild child. It explained how Kirk got away with most of what he did. “My boy, I didn’t know you were back. Well, that does brighten my evening.” Komack paused in the wide aisle, several feet behind Stonn’s desk. His suit, a gray pinstripe of clearly expensive material, was nevertheless wrinkled and straining in the wrong places. “Spock, I assume you’ve prepared the usual dry and scientific briefing for me?”

Spock stood up, straightening his spine to its full extent. “Indeed.”

“Well, let’s get this over with. Jimmy, why don’t you bring in some of your team? Anyone new and nice to look at these days?”

Kirk laughed and shook his head. “Only Bones with me tonight, sir, and I don’t know that he’s quite filling out the uniform in the way you’d like.”

Spock spotted the lie but refrained from comment. He knew that Kirk’s team had at least two other members, and likely one of them was shaped to Komack’s exact, sexist dimensions. This was a lie that Spock understood: he’d been shielding Nyota and T’Pring from any one-on-one attention from their boss for years. No one had yet to make a sexual harassment claim stick to Komack, but Spock thought it was only a matter of time. As much as he wanted the man to go, he didn’t want a friend of his put in the position that would necessitate that change.

As Kirk walked away with Komack, already chatting about the trip from which he had just returned, Spock looked around at his team. “See you tomorrow?” Nyota said, and Spock nodded.

“I anticipate a short meeting,” he said, “and let us plan on running our model tomorrow. I will message if there are any changes.”

He watched his team pack their things efficiently, then gathered his own notes for the nightly rundown. Their flagship weather broadcast show ran at 11 p.m. Eastern time. Ratings-wise, it did not compete with network news, but it did offer those who wanted a break from the politically-related disasters of the day a chance to listen to climate-related disaster briefs instead. The network rotated different anchors through the chairs, depending on everyone’s travel schedules; Spock was rarely called upon for the main news reading, but he did regularly contribute to live segments on expected serious weather patterns around the country, often seated in front of the Lab Deck monitors.

That evening, his team had suggested two minutes on the possibility of serious storms in the upper Midwest and a thirty-second update on a blistering heat wave in the Southwest. Spock presented the suggestions with his usual emphasis on the scientific models that underlay their predictions.

“Fine, fine," Komack said, barely glancing at the sheet before him. “Lucy, schedule it in. Say, any chance you’ve got footage from Florida we can throw in, Jimmy? Wrestle an alligator, maybe?”

“Didn’t see any alligators this time,” Kirk said, thoughtfully, “though we did a little surfing.”

Komack’s eyes gleamed. “On camera?”

“Of course.”

“Tell me you were in a wetsuit, and it’s worth at least a point in ratings,” Komack said, and Kirk shrugged.

“Is there another way to surf?”

And that was how Spock’s report on potentially life- and property-threatening thunderstorms predicted to erupt over three major population centers in the next twenty-four hours was relegated to a 45-second spot in the B block, while Jim Kirk gave a live demonstration of appropriate surfboard mounting technique in the A-block, live at the anchor desk, after two minutes of video roll.

What was less clear to Spock was how, after that, he wound up accepting Kirk’s invitation to the bar in the basement of the Federation Media Tower for late-night drinks.

“That’s more like it,” Kirk said, settling into a dark booth at the back of the nearly-empty bar. He had somehow managed to stay in the purple dress shirt he’d worn on air, though the jacket and tie had apparently been returned to wardrobe. The collar now stood unbuttoned at Kirk’s throat, revealing a tanned triangle of skin that Spock tried not to find enticing. He had, himself, worn the same shirt (narrow-fit, light-gray) from his on-air appearance, but that was because he owned both it and the black tie he now gently loosened. “God, I hate that guy.”

Spock glanced at the retreating form of their solicitous waiter, wondering who deserved Kirk’s animus. “The server?”

“Komack,” Kirk said, and took a gulp from his drink. He barely winced as the alcohol slid down.

“Ah.” Spock took a tiny, testing sip of his own drink, something Kirk had ordered by an unfamiliar name. It tasted faintly of chocolate and a bit of cherry and went down far too smoothly. Spock wondered if he’d been given a non-alcoholic drink by mistake, but decided it would be to his benefit to be the only one sober at the table. Besides, Kirk was buying, and the drink was delicious. “I try to have as little to do with him as possible.”

“I wish that worked for me,” Kirk said.

“I report directly to Karen.”

Kirk frowned and looked into his drink. “That’s not a better option for me, unfortunately.”

“I see,” Spock said, though he didn’t. Perhaps it had something to do with Kirk’s reputation for chasing women, he thought, and then swallowed that distasteful thought away with another sip from his delightful drink. “Admiral Komack seemed pleased to see you.”

“Sure,” Kirk said, shrugging. He ran one hand through his hair, un-gelling a few spikes into something messier but not unattractive. “Every time he sees me, though, I get a new assignment to go to some god-forsaken corner of the country to stand in an electrical storm with a giant metal microphone tied to my hand.”

Spock blinked. Behind him, the music faded between songs long enough that he could hear the chatter of the overnight FWN programming — currently, a repeat of one of his own shows — from a corner television. “I was under the impression that you sought out field assignments.”

“Field assignments, sure,” Kirk said. “Who doesn’t love a little away team action? But Komack’s been getting editorial to assign us to emergencies. Last month we were in Atlanta and Miami talking drought, Missouri after the flooding, eastern Colorado during the tornado, southern Washington for the snow, and now we’re just back from Florida again.” His expression was one of disgust. “We’re becoming storm chasers, not meteorologists.”

This did not align with Spock’s understanding of Kirk or his team. “Why do you accept the assignments, then?”

Kirk shrugged. He had a distinctive shrug, somehow, as though he was letting a question physically roll off his back, often followed by a tiny shake of his head. “Mostly, because it’s my job. And if I don’t take the assignment, then he’s gonna send someone else, like Ellison or Bart. Petra’s a great reporter, but she’s not ready for tornado alley yet.” He took another gulp of his drink and set his empty glass next to Spock’s. Spock appreciated that it remained unsaid that Spock’s own team was also spared these dangerous outings. While he had, himself, served his time on the front lines of weather journalism, his team had not, and they were all quite comfortable behind the secure desks of the weather lab. “I may not like it, but I’m at least set up for it. No one on my team is gonna get caught unprepared, you know?” Kirk sighed. “Let me ask you something. Are you happy with the way the broadcasts go?”

“The live segments?”

“Yeah, like the news hours at 5 and 11, for instance.”

Spock chose his words carefully, but found he wanted to be honest. “I do not always believe that the most important themes are being covered in the right detail.”

Kirk grinned and snapped his fingers, pointing at Spock. “I knew it. You’re tired of prioritizing yesterday’s big scenes, too, huh?”

That was actually very close to Spock’s private thoughts on the matter. “I think there could be value in discussing what has happened, but — framing it in current science, for instance, would be an improvement.”

The music swelled briefly in the bar, and Spock took a sip from his drink. There were only a few other customers around, and they would likely face last call in the next thirty minutes. It was an altogether pleasant way to end a late evening.

Kirk said, “Yep. Totally. I’d like to see the highlights get threaded with some real climate science, see the forecasts get more framing around the context of current patterns, too. I know the current thinking is that people just tune in to see the forecast, but, man, I think they’re turning to their phones for that. We have a chance to help them learn about climate science, and the environment.”

“I agree,” Spock said. “I feel that we have, too often, been using extremely talented scientists as glorified weathermen, of late.”

“The dreaded greenscreen map,” Kirk said, nodding in sympathy. “God, I need another drink even thinking about it. I’ll get this round, then the next one’s on you.” He was up and back at the bar before Spock could turn away a second drink.

This at least gave Spock a moment to reflect on what he’d heard (and to finish his drink). Jim Kirk, the station’s closest approximation to an action hero, had just said he dreaded the stunt-television field assignments that had made him famous. It made little sense, and Spock briefly wondered what motive Kirk could have to lie to him. Spock was actually a fairly skilled political operator, himself, though he rarely chose to play the in-fighting games at the network. His own team had claimed the network lab and most of the rights to the best equipment, and Spock had excellent connections to scientists at the National Weather Service and in academia. His shows had above-network-average ratings, and Nyota’s work had garnered a dedicated online following. They weren’t, perhaps, as popular as Kirk’s shows, but they were overall more consistent. Other than a distinct lack of enthusiasm about his overbearing boss, Spock’s job was just about perfect. Could Kirk be trying to harm Spock’s position in some way? Spock could see no benefit professionally for Kirk in befriending Spock, and there was little reason Kirk would want to become enemies, either. Though he possibly had Komack’s ear, Spock had Karen’s and two years remaining on his (comparatively lucrative) contract.

So why, then, had Kirk invited him here? Why was he confiding in Spock about his dislike of Komack and the status quo?

The only logical answer to that question would be found by asking, which was what Spock proceeded to do as soon as Kirk returned.

Kirk grinned after Spock asked his question. He’d brought back a beer for himself and another tall, delicious drink for Spock. This time, it had a strawberry speared at the top. “Because you don’t like me very much,” Kirk said. “I mean, I don’t think you dislike me, either, but — I know you don’t actively admire me.”

Spock studied the strawberry as he took another drink. He wasn’t surprised to learn that Kirk thought Spock indifferent. That was a largely accurate observation, and he had every reason to believe Kirk was an astute observer of social nuance. “Do you require that I like you?”

“No.” Kirk sat back in the booth, stretching one arm over the back of the seat. In the dim lighting, he looked tired again, though not as weary as he had when Komack had approached. “Just, it’s refreshing, sometimes. Half the people — nah, more than half the people here, they’re so damn nice to me that my teeth hurt from it. And it’s not even me they’re being nice to, not really.”

Having figured out no more graceful way to do it, Spock picked up the strawberry on its artful pirate-sword toothpick and ate it. “Do you refer to your team?”

“I refer,” Kirk said, one hand holding his drink though he showed no signs of actually consuming it, “to my dad.”

“Ah.” Spock had seen only one George Kirk movie in his life, the same movie that everyone had seen: _Holiday in Hillston_ , the Christmas-time classic. George Kirk had made a dozen other films, as well, after a long and charmed career as a child television star in the 1960s. Then, just as his star was beginning to soar, he had died. Spock had read about this exactly once, and then only because Nyota had sent him a link to a profile of Jim Kirk in some obscure women’s interest magazine. Kirk’s father had died in a boating accident, trying to save a woman who had fallen overboard. The woman had survived, but George Kirk had not, prompting the celebrity equivalent of a national mourning period in 1983 — also, incidentally, the year of Jim Kirk’s birth. Spock thought about this for a few moments, sipping his new drink liberally. “You believe people like you because they admired your father.”

“Yes.”

“And you believe I am immune to this… misplaced positive feeling?”

“Yes.”

Well, it wasn’t as though Spock himself hadn’t had a complicated relationship with his father’s own renown. “I grant the assumption,” Spock said, “though I think it is inaccurate to say that I don’t like you.”

His beer bottle returned to the table, and Kirk leaned forward. “Oh yeah?”

“Indeed. I am coming to understand that you possess several admirable qualities.”

Kirk laughed. “Um, thanks? You’re not bad, yourself, really.” He shook his head. “Though you should maybe put the sword down.”

Spock glanced at his own hand and found he was gesturing at Jim with the pink plastic sword from the strawberry garnish. He sheathed it in a nearby napkin. “May I ask you an important question?”

“Sure, you bet,” Jim said, his elbows on the table. Close up, even in the dark light, his eyes were bright blue, almost unnaturally beautiful, like clear skies after weeks of clouds.

“What exactly was in this drink?”

Now Kirk’s eyes lit up as he smiled. “Why, you want some more of it?”

“I do, and I also know that is a poor decision,” Spock admitted. “But I believe you did volunteer me to buy the next round.”

“And I bet you honor your volunteer commitments.”

Spock nodded. “I was raised to believe public service is admirable. Will you give me your order?”

“I’ll take another of these,” Kirk said, handing him the empty beer bottle, “and you were just drinking a Hurricane.”

At the bar, Spock ordered the drinks, and in answer to the bartender’s question, decided to try another Hurricane, this time upgrading to a Category 3. He could quote wind-speeds and barometric pressure necessities for the real thing, but he had no idea what went into the consumable version. As he mostly drank wine, and then only with meals or over long conversations, Spock wasn’t sure he wanted to know the ingredients he was about to ingest. They tasted good in combination.

Of course, he should have remembered his training: never underestimate a storm’s power to knock you down.

* * *

Instead of damaging winds and driving rain, however, Spock’s hurricane experience ended with Jim Kirk asleep in his bed.

“Hey,” Kirk said, voice thick with sleep. Spock had woken up to the wail of his alarm clock, shut it off, and curled back into his comfortable bed to nurse a splitting headache — only to find the bed occupied. It was hard to know whether the alarm or Spock’s own cry had woken Kirk. “Before you freak out, let me explain.”

“It may already be too late for that,” Spock said, rubbing his forehead. He was wearing most of last night’s clothes, at least, and so was Kirk, though his shirt looked like one of Spock’s: the 2014 Wine and Weather event, in fact. Kirk was lying next to Spock, on top of the blanket, stretched out on his back. Spock sat up against the headboard, though his head protested that move violently. “But do please try.”

“You were pretty drunk when we left the bar," Kirk said, “so I had to make sure you’d get home OK.”

Spock could remember some of this. His last drink — or had there been two more? — had been potent, and walking had been more challenging than it should have been. He could remember telling Kirk his address, in fact, and then he remembered: “Nyota.”

“Yeah, you texted her.” Kirk rubbed his face and sat up. Spock’s T-shirt stretched tight across Kirk’s back, and Spock swallowed and looked away. He didn’t believe anything had happened, but most of the arrival home was blurry. “Is she, um — I didn’t think you two were still an item.”

“We are not," Spock said, “though she does, sometimes, worry.”

“Ah. OK. Anyway, she made me promise that you’d make it home in one piece, so I made sure.” Kirk stood, now, and stretched, and Spock’s T-shirt rode up to reveal a hint of toned abs that Spock absolutely knew he shouldn’t be staring at. “And you invited me in for ‘a real drink’ when we got here, spilled your wine on my shirt, and pretty much passed out. So I borrowed a shirt and sat down in here to make sure you weren’t going to be sick, and then I fell asleep.” He looked sheepish. “Sorry about that. I guess I’m still on travel time.”

This story rang completely true, Spock realized. Nyota did worry, and Spock did get a bit clumsy once he’d had too much to drink. It didn’t make it any less embarrassing for its truth, though Kirk’s easy, matter-of-fact telling did help. “Thank you for — indulging Nyota.”

Kirk grinned. “That’s no problem. She’s scary as fuck. T’Pring is like, maybe, half a point scarier, but I’d put Uhura at EF-5 easy.”

The visualization had occurred to Spock before, as well. “I am certain she would be gratified to hear this,” Spock said. He wanted to force himself out of bed, but he was not at all certain his exit would be graceful. “If you would care to shower, please feel free, or make use of any amenities.”

“I think I will, thanks. Also, do you have a phone charger, by chance? Mine is seriously dead.” Once Spock nodded, Kirk handed Spock his phone. “Oh, there’s a glass of water and Tylenol on the bedside table.”

“Thank you.”

Spock swallowed the pills and water, pulled on his robe, and slowly made his way to the kitchen. His apartment was a loft-style one-bedroom, with a living room connected to a kitchen bounded by a high bar. He cooked infrequently, as he was generally at work through most of the meal times in a day, but he did usually fix a small breakfast before leaving. A detail-oriented young woman named Janice Rand served as his housekeeper and personal assistant, and she stocked the fridge, kept things tidy, and managed the in-and-out shuffle of laundry and dry cleaning. She had clearly visited recently, as there were fresh fruits in the refrigerator and a new bag of coffee beans on the counter. After he plugged Kirk’s phone in, he started making enough food for two of them, and hoped Kirk didn’t mind.

“Oh, wow,” Kirk said when he emerged. He wore the same clothes he had worn the night before, though now the dress shirt was unbuttoned over his undershirt, and he was barefoot as he padded over Spock’s hardwood floor. Water sparkled in his hair, making it seem darker than usual. He stopped at the kitchen bar island and set his shoes on the floor. A faint tang of mixed scents — Spock’s shampoo and a hint of last night’s wine — preceded him. “Is that for me?”

“Yes,” Spock said. “It is the least I could do, in return for your… vigilance.”

Kirk laughed and sat in one of the high bar seats. “So every time I make sure you don’t die of alcohol poisoning, which you were in danger of only because I introduced you to the candy-flavored menu at the bar, you’re going to make me breakfast?”

Spock allowed himself a thin smile, understanding he was dangerously close to flirting. “If you consequently end up spending the night, then yes.”

“Deal.” Kirk’s spoon hovered over the bowl. “What am I eating, by the way?”

“Plain yogurt, fresh raspberries and blueberries, honey, and granola,” Spock said. “I also have toast. And, of course, coffee.” He gestured to the mug in Kirk’s hand. “If you require cream or sugar —“

“No, black is great. This whole thing is actually great. I’ve been living off of free hotel breakfasts for a while, so it’s nice to have something that wasn’t cooked in a microwave.” He took a bite and seemed to genuinely enjoy it. The raspberries were nearly perfect, Spock had to admit, and he was grateful to Rand for delivering them from the market. “Plus, Bones will be delighted to hear that I’ve had an actual fruit for once.”

“Bones?” Spock raised an eyebrow. “Ah, you refer to Dr. McCoy.”

“Yup.” Kirk took another bite and closed his eyes as though savoring it.

Spock took a bite of his own breakfast. He knew that Kirk and McCoy were close — their on-air chemistry was what made _MedBay_ watchable — but he realized he didn’t know the precise nature of their relationship. “Is he your current romantic partner?”

Kirk’s cheeks puffed out, but he didn’t spit out his coffee. One finger rose in a “wait," gesture, and Spock did so. “Ah, no,” Kirk said, shaking his head slowly, “definitely not.”

“I see.” Spock felt a flicker of surprise at the vehemence of Kirk’s reply. “I apologize if I have offended by asking.”

“Not at all,” Kirk said. “Just caught me by surprise. I forget that not everyone knows: Bones is going through a divorce right now, actually.”

Spock found he had trouble believing the famously prickly physician had been married at all, but this didn’t seem the time to bring it up. “I’m sorry to hear that.”

Kirk shrugged. “You probably wouldn’t be if you’d met her. Joss is a piece of work, but, hey. Young love.” He took another bite. “What about you? You seeing anyone these days?”

“I am not romantically attached to anyone at the moment.”

“Oh yeah?” Kirk half turned, giving him a long, appraising look. “That can’t be for a lack of offers.”

Spock concentrated on his yogurt parfait. “I have been told that my dedication to my work is a significant barrier to relationships.”

“Ouch. I say that with real sympathy, as I’ve been accused of the same.” Spock thought fleetingly of the rumors that had swirled about Kirk’s involvement with Carol Marcus, a morning anchor who had only just recently returned from maternity leave. Before he could decide whether to ask, however, Kirk’s phone chirped. “Oh, no.”

Spock looked over in puzzlement. “It appeared to be off when I plugged it in.”

“I’m sure it was,” Kirk said. “Unfortunately, my team is full of top-notch assholes with unbeatable tech skills.” He picked up the phone, glanced at its screen, and winced. “And I’m really, really sorry about whatever is about to happen.”

“What is —“ Spock stopped when he heard his door buzzer go off. That, in itself, was strange. Very few people visited him at home, and those who did always called ahead. He looked across the room at the intercom box, surprised that Kirk was already walking over.

“May I?” he said, and Spock nodded. Kirk pressed the talk button just long enough to activate the microphone below, then let go. The speaker crackled suddenly with an agitated Scottish brogue, caught in mid-sentence: “— and the traffic, I ask you! Where does he bloody park in this neighborhood, never mind that — hey! Jim, are you going to let us in or not?”

Kirk sighed and pressed the button to open the door, then turned back to Spock. “Again, I apologize in advance. They mean well.”

Spock straightened his robe. “Of whom, exactly, do you speak?”

“My tech, Scotty — that’s Montgomery Scott, but we call him Scotty — and whoever he’s managed to convince to drive him. Probably Sulu. You’ve probably met him, actually, he used to do the three o’clock national hour but then I lured him into the field.” Kirk said all of this while he moved around, unlocking Spock’s front door before he returned to grab his shoes. Spock watched him shove sockless feet into the dress shoes and felt that he was missing something. This was the type of rushed preparation one made before an evacuation, he thought.

“How did they know you were here?”

“Probably because Scotty installed another damn tracker on my phone. With an autostart, I see.” He was glaring at the device as he spoke. “It’s kind of a long story —“

“Jim! There you are.” A short man with thinning reddish-blond hair strode into Spock’s apartment without even pausing to ask for entry. He wore a puffy green coat and heavy galoshes, both inappropriate to the weather. Spock thought he had perhaps met him before, at one of the end-of-year parties that Karen Komack inevitably forced him to make an appearance at, for “team morale.” This looked like someone that Spock would not have trusted near the punch bowl. “I’ve been lookin’ for you all morning. Thought you’d lost another mobile in the river or somethin’.”

“Not this time, Scotty. Hey, do you know Spock Grayson, from the weather lab?”

“The weather lab? Sure I do,” Scott said, advancing with a hand out. Spock shook it, though Scott shook so vigorously that he felt his arm was briefly in danger. “That model you’ve got for figuring the jet stream currents is a work of art, sir. I refer to it at least five times a day, more when this one’s making us fly somewhere new.” He jerked a thumb toward Kirk, who rubbed the back of his own neck.

“I am, of course, glad to hear it’s of use,” Spock said.

Two firm knocks fell on the half-open door, and Spock looked over to see Hikaru Sulu peek his head around. “Hi,” he said. “OK if I come in, too?”

“Of course.” Spock had met Sulu at a few office meetings and functions before, though he didn’t know him well. As he stepped in, Spock caught the quick look he cast between Spock and Kirk and realized that their varying states of dress, and Kirk’s presence in his apartment that morning, likely spoke to a different night than what had taken place.

Before he could figure out what to say, though, Kirk turned to Sulu and said, “Really?”

Sulu shrugged, hands spread as though in placation. “I barely let him out of my sight,” he said.

“Uh-huh. And he still managed to chase me down before the end of breakfast.” Kirk shook his head, but his tone sounded more amused than angry. “All right, well, whatever the emergency is, save it for the car. We can leave Spock in peace, at least.”

The other two nodded their assent, and after both affirmed that it had been nice to see Spock, left under Kirk’s guidance. When they were gone, he turned from the doorway and said, “So, I’m sorry about that.”

Spock raised an eyebrow. “I was expecting much more mortal peril, from the way you spoke of it earlier. Though I do think it’s possible that you’re in a stalking relationship with Mr. Scott.”

“Could be, actually,” Kirk said, sounding thoughtful. “Anyway. Thanks, again, for breakfast. And for going out last night. I know it’s not your usual thing.”

“I appreciated the invitation,” Spock said, mildly surprised to find he meant it. “Perhaps next time, though, I will stick with drinks that have a lower chance of catastrophic damage.”

Kirk grinned. “Probably wise. I’ll look forward to it.”

And that was that.

Until it wasn’t.


	2. Chapter 2

Spock didn’t see Kirk again the next day, and he learned from Nyota that his team had been sent to Indiana to cover a possible tornado outbreak. It was illogical to feel disappointed, Spock realized, but he had hoped to talk with Kirk a bit more. Their evening had been surprisingly enjoyable; it had piqued Spock’s curiosity about Kirk. He shook it off, though, and began to prepare for their afternoon program.

Days at FWN followed a certain pattern. The crews worked in shifts, and Spock and his team were generally scheduled to be in the building from about 3 p.m. until midnight or just after. They ran two shows a day, basically, as Spock was the managing editor and senior meteorologist for _Live from the Lab Deck_ at 5 p.m. and often contributed to the 11 p.m. national weather hour. Because they were in the building during primetime hours, Spock and his team were often also called upon to do small updates throughout the evening. In between these times, they used the combined data collected in international models and on-the-ground observations to adjust the actual forecasts that were broadcast and available online. This meant that they rarely had an average, at-the-desk workday, but they also had a fair amount of flexibility. Sometimes, they used their open evenings to tape their segments for the weekend show. Unlike some of the other meteorologists he had worked with, Spock had no particular ego issues, and he had little problem with handing “his” show off to T’Pring or other substitute anchors for an evening. He did not feel slighted when his accomplished staff had more on-air time than he did in a week; rather, he was always interested in the best science being broadcast at the most opportune moment.

This sometimes put him into conflict with Admiral Komack, who wanted the best ratings to be their overall goal. However, since weather emergencies happened with some frequency, and since accurate predictions created viewer trust and drove ratings, Spock was generally allowed to have his run of the station.

That afternoon, Spock was contemplating what should be the priority for broadcast over the next few hours and idly checking in to see how their computer modeling was going, when a new text message arrived:

_Scotty says your model predicted our turbulence 100%._

The number had an Iowa prefix, but Spock had no real doubts about its sender. He was considering his reply when the next message came through: _This is Jim, btw._

_Yes, I had deduced that. Please tell Mr. Scott I appreciate his endorsement, though I’m sorry to hear your flight was not ideal._

_No flight is ideal,_ Jim wrote back. _Not a big fan of flying unless I’m in the captain’s seat._

_You have a pilot’s license?_

_Well, license might be a slight exaggeration…_

It was nothing, and yet, over the next few days, the texts kept coming. Spock began to enjoy their harmless chatter. Kirk — Jim was an excellent text message correspondent, prone to sending random but well-framed photos of his friends, the food they encountered, or particularly humorous and off-beat local images. He loved weather puns and poorly done warning signs and sent Spock collections of both. Their messages were mostly mundane and inconsequential, but they carried a ring of friendly intimacy, somehow, as when Jim texted a photo of his messy hotel room labeled “home sweet home” or one of a tall daiquiri labeled “wish u were here.” More even than their drinks or breakfast, their casual conversations made Spock begin to wonder if he’d had the wrong image of Jim.

About two weeks later, Spock wrapped up one such conversation just before a mid-day planning meeting. Jim and his team were due back in New York for a few days, from Tuesday until Thursday — their brand of weekend. Mid-week was usually the slowest for their network in terms of ratings, anyway. People traveled on and around weekends, which meant the network’s biggest names — like Spock and Jim — would be called to air then for even small weather news. Jim’s team had time off because they had traveled over Easter weekend to provide, as Jim had written Spock one evening, _late-breaking updates on critical outside egg concealment conditions._

Spock found he was looking forward to seeing Jim again.

That afternoon, as he slid his phone into his pocket, he noticed T’Pring’s evaluative stare across the table, but hoped it had more to do with their special guest that afternoon than his own behavior.

“Well, I have news for you all,” Karen Komack said, leaning back in her seat. At forty-five, she was as lean and athletic as her father was barrel-chested, though they both appeared comfortable with the trappings of their enormous wealth. Karen preferred to sit at the head of the table, which Spock found ridiculous but had never chosen to mention. It was made all the more ridiculous today because her presence at Spock’s team planning meeting had been unannounced, and Stonn had been made to vacate his seat to accommodate her. It did add some drama to announcements like this, though, Spock thought, and hoped it wasn’t another budget problem.

“Carol Marcus has decided to leave the network, effective at the end of the month.”

“What a surprise,” T’Pring murmured, though Spock held his face perfectly neutral.

Karen continued, a half-smile on her face. “Rumor has it she’s got a deal in the works with ABC to join one of their talk shows, but she’s got a non-compete clause with us for at least the next 6 months.”

“Did she give a reason?” Nyota asked.

Karen shrugged. “Motherhood, I guess.” She glanced at her phone. “Anyway, it means some changes for your team, but I know you’ll rise to the occasion.”

“Undoubtedly,” Spock said. “What manner of changes do you foresee?”

“More air time for you,” she said to T’Pring, “and more travel for you, Spock. Marcus was supposed to be the second chair for Kirk’s team this summer, and there’s no one else that’s got enough science chops to go back and forth with him, except you.”

“I see,” Spock said, glancing at his team. “Will we be on-call, or is this pre-set?”

“Bit of both. There’s one week of what-if broadcasting at the end of, hmm, July? Three cities, live broadcasting, that kind of thing. Otherwise, it’s just on location when there’s big weather. The Admiral would like to do at least two live locations a week, but Kirk’s used to the travel, so I think we can get you off the hook for some of it.” Her look now was sympathetic and somehow conspiratorial, and Spock nodded but did not respond. He remembered Jim in the bar, mentioning his displeasure at his team’s treatment. “Anyway. Gotta go check in on Petra. I’m sure there’ll be more details once Kirk’s back in town tonight.”

“Of course.” Once Karen had left, the team all turned to Spock. “I assume you are wondering if I knew this was happening, and the answer is no.”

“How unfair is that?” Nyota said. “It’s Kirk’s fault Marcus was off air, anyway, and now we’re getting shoved around to cover for him, too?”

Spock frowned. His fingers practically itched to text Jim and ask about the same thing. “I do not believe that those rumors have ever been confirmed,” he said, carefully. “But I do recognize the disruption here. We can schedule a meeting with Dr. Kirk and his team for tomorrow, if you think it would be beneficial.”

“Indeed,” Stonn said, fingers steepled, “I believe such a meeting would be quite useful.”

However, when Spock texted to set up just such a meeting, Jim did not immediately respond. That, in and of itself, was not unusual: He was scheduled to travel from Cleveland back to New York that night, and he would likely have little access to his phone for most of that travel. Still, when Spock came off camera after his final appearance of the day, he was surprised to see no new messages waiting.

And then he was surprised again to see Jim Kirk, sitting comfortably on the edge of Spock’s desk, chatting animatedly with T’Pring. “Hey, Spock!”

“Jim,” Spock said, tilting his head. Jim wore gray slacks and a white polo shirt, and it made him appear tanned and relaxed, though Spock knew he’d been sleeping only fitfully for the past week. “I trust your flight went well.”

“Yup, just like you said. By the way, you should probably watch out. I think Scotty’s building some kind of shrine to you.”

“I am forewarned.” Spock sat in his chair, but Jim didn’t move, putting him just within Spock’s personal space. Perhaps it wasn’t intentional, but this time, Spock didn’t mind. His shined loafer nearly brushed Jim’s low-top sneakers. “Did you receive my message?”

Jim nodded. “I did, and I thought, why wait for tomorrow? I’ve got the whole team here now, anyway, so we should just dive in and get this done.”

Spock glanced at the far corner and saw that Jim’s usual conference room was dark. “Here?”

“Well — in the building.” Jim’s smile was blinding. “Formal meetings aren’t really my team’s strength, but they are all killer darts players, and they’re pretty thirsty after two weeks on the road.” He raised his eyebrows. “There’s a whole other side to that drink menu that you haven’t even experienced yet. Come on! It’ll be fun. I think I’ve got your team, like, 70 percent convinced.”

“Thirty,” Nyota said, voice flat, and Jim laughed.

“I was averaging,” he said. “Stonn’s totally sold.”

Spock thought he saw Stonn shake his head, slightly, as though torn between annoyance and being impressed. An evening at the bar with Jim and his team actually didn’t sound bad at all to Spock, but he wasn’t sure that Jim’s estimation of his team’s opinion was correct. “Let me discuss it with everyone,” he said, and Jim nodded.

“I hope I’ll see you either way? Or text me,” he said, and dropped a hand briefly to Spock’s shoulder before he walked away.

Nyota looked at him with open disbelief. “Are you two…?” Spock raised an eyebrow, and she shook her head. “Never mind. None of my business.”

“I believe it might actually be of professional interest to all of us,” T’Pring said, “to know the nature of your relationship with Dr. Kirk.”

Spock sighed. His chair creaked faintly when he leaned back. “I do not have a relationship with Dr. Kirk,” he said, “though we have had several friendly interactions over the course of the last week.”

“Friendly — oh my god, that’s who you’ve been texting!” Nyota sat up. “Spock! I thought you had a new — I thought you were seeing someone. I didn’t know it was Kirk!”

“I have not been ‘seeing’ anyone, including Jim Kirk,” Spock said, straightening his shirt. The answer was accurate, even if it didn’t include that Spock had begun to consider whether he might like to see more of Jim Kirk. “Am I to take it, then, that you would all prefer not to join his team in the bar this evening?”

“Oh, no, we’re totally going,” Nyota said, and T’Pring and Stonn both nodded their agreement.

Spock felt a flicker of foreboding, but he shoved it down. “Very well, then. I shall let Jim know.”

Despite that uncomfortable start, the evening was, in Spock’s mind, an unqualified success. It started when Spock and his team walked into the bar, just after their briefing with the crew that would present at 11 p.m. No major areas of concern had popped up during the day, so the nightly anchors could handle the newsreading on their own without throwing live to anyone in the Lab Deck. This made for a less stressful night for the team, and it meant that Jim’s crew was only about an hour ahead of Spock’s in terms of drinks.

Jim had managed to snag a collection of tables along the back wall, and he was lounging in the corner of the long bench seat, McCoy across from him, making a point that apparently required jabbing a finger in the air. Jim glanced up and saw Spock and grinned, and Spock couldn’t help smiling back in return. “Hey! Glad you guys could make it,” he said. “Let’s do intros and then get everyone set up at the bar.”

“That would be acceptable,” Spock said, and Jim laughed.

“All right, so, everyone already knows Bones, and that madman at the darts is Scotty, he runs our tech. Uh, Sulu’s down there on the phone, he’s on-air and sometimes we let him run around like a real MMJ,” Jim said. Next, he pointed at a tall blond woman walking toward them, her hair up in a tight twist and her mouth drawn into a concentrated scowl. “And that’s Chris Chapel, our producer, with the pitcher, which she swears she won’t share.”

“I spent my weekend flying coach, sober," she said, taking a seat at the next table over. “I have earned this pitcher.” She glanced up and looked between Spock and Stonn. “Though I wouldn’t mind some civilized company.”

“I would be happy to oblige,” Stonn said, and Spock caught Jim’s eye and raised an eyebrow.

“Stonn, who specializes in hydrology and produces our show,” Spock said, gesturing to his team, “T’Pring, climatology, on-air, and Nyota Uhura, who handles our web presence and communications.”

“Are you the Twitter person?” Scott had appeared almost out of nowhere, and now stood behind Nyota with a dart in one hand and a dark beer in the other.

She looked him up and down. Nyota had at least six inches on him in height, and in her high-necked red sweater dress and heeled boots, she also had about six degrees on him in class and beauty. Scott, looking rumpled in flannel and cargo pants, at least seemed appropriately cowed, Spock thought. “That depends. Am I gonna want to block you by the end of the night?”

“I wish I could promise a no,” he said, sounding truly like he regretted his own honesty. He crossed one arm over his wrinkled shirt and barely kept from sloshing his beer onto the floor. “Tell ya what, you come and tell me how you’re automating your replies so nicely, and I’ll let you beat me at darts, and then we’ll see.”

“Deal, if you give me that beer.”

“Hard bargain. I think I’m in love,” Scott said, and soon he and Nyota were off. That left Spock and T’Pring, who had already seated herself beside McCoy and begun a discussion of a recent episode of MedBay. Spock looked over at Jim, who was beaming.

“I believe I owe you a drink,” Spock said, and Jim nodded and slid out from the booth.

“I believe I’ll collect on that.” Jim followed him to the bar, where Spock ordered a round of (Category 2) hurricanes for his team and a whiskey sour for Jim. Jim leaned against the bar with one shoulder, his arm brushing against Spock’s while he gazed out over the establishment. “Thanks for convincing them to come out.”

Spock raised an eyebrow, watching the bartender make his drink. “They needed little convincing. I believe they are curious about you.”

“Curious about why you and I are suddenly friends, huh?” Spock nodded and watched Jim’s eyes smile. “It’s nice that they look out for you. Mine’s the same way.” He accepted his drink from the bartender, took a taste, and nodded. Spock started a tab, and Jim picked up one hurricane while Spock carried three. They handed off the drinks to his crew, and then Spock and Jim sat at the table Sulu had just vacated, one down from Chapel and Stonn.

“Speaking of an EF-5,” Jim murmured, and Spock glanced over at Chapel. She was smiling at Stonn a bit like a shark might smile at particularly adorable prey, and Spock watched Stonn take an inadvisably large sip of his drink.

“It is good to sometimes experience the power of nature firsthand,” Spock said, and Jim laughed into his drink.

The night went well. Jim’s team and Spock’s team seemed to take to each other easily, which was not terribly surprising, when Spock paused to think about it. Meteorologists were a relatively small branch of scientists, and those in the broadcast business were again a smaller-knit crew with usually similar areas of study and expertise. They had all managed to rise to the top of their prospective fields, and quickly, and this spoke to similar talents and tastes. It made sense that Sulu and Stonn would have shared professors in their master’s program, and that Uhura and Chapel had friends in common from recent conferences. T’Pring’s interest in climate science dovetailed with McCoy’s and Jim’s own desire to bring more climatology to the on-air programs. Spock’s air current models and simulations ran on the basis of broad measuring analysis systems that Scott had designed during his time at MIT, and they spent half an hour discussing the newest climate model research out of Australia — research that Spock had not yet found anyone else adeptly conversant in.

By the end of the evening, Spock felt that their teams now stood on the same friendly, informal grounds that Jim and Spock had stood on after their last evening, and the exchange of contact information among everyone seemed to support this. In fact, McCoy, Chapel, T’Pring, and Nyota shared a car back to their respective apartments, finding they all lived within a short distance of each other, while Stonn, Scott, and Sulu decided to stay for an additional round of darts. Spock, with an eye on the clock, knew that he would need to get home himself shortly. As they walked through the bar, having said their goodbyes, he asked whether Jim would like to share a car.

“Oh, uh, actually, that’s all right,” Jim said, holding open the door to the main hallway. “I don’t want to put you out.”

Spock paused in the building’s broad, marble-floored lobby. At this time of night, it was empty and quiet except for incongruously peppy music. Even the guard desk was empty, the floors above accessible only with an ID or by using the emergency phone near the elevators. Spock knew this from long experience, having been called in for late-night forecasting and broadcasting work frequently. He couldn’t imagine Jim hadn’t done the same, and had not seriously considered that he might live too far away. “Is your home not on the way? My own apartment is, as you know, not far from here, so even if the car must turn around —“

Jim sighed and wrapped a hand around the strap of his backpack. “No, it’s not that. It’s just, I, uh, actually, I haven’t worked out where I’m staying tonight.” Spock raised an eyebrow. “I don’t have a place in New York.” Jim shrugged as Spock kept staring at him. His face had flushed, faintly, though that might have also been due to the alcohol they had both just consumed. “Just, in the last few years, I’ve been here, maybe, fifty days out of the entire year? It doesn’t make any sense to keep an apartment when I’m not going to get to see it.”

“I see,” Spock said, though he had trouble fully contemplating this arrangement. “Where do you usually stay?”

“Depends. This trip, I was gonna stay with Bones, but, uh, I kinda don’t think he’s going to be alone tonight, so — “ Spock thought about that, about the intensity of the discussion between T’Pring and McCoy all evening, and wondered if he should be surprised. “I’ll get a hotel room.”

“That is hardly necessary,” Spock said. “As I said, my apartment is very near by, and I believe I did not properly introduce you to my wine collection during your last visit.”

Jim smirked. “Well, I do still have the stain to remember it by, so that’s something.” His grin faded. “Are you sure? It’s not a problem to just book a room — I’ve got some little app on my phone, I can probably —“

“Jim,” Spock said, and he put a hand gently on Jim’s forearm, the way Jim had done at least three times that night across their small table. Jim’s skin still felt sun-warm beneath Spock’s fingers. “Let me be clear. I would like you to come home with me.”

“Oh,” Jim said, and then he smiled again, this one small and private. “Yeah, then. That would be great.”


	3. Chapter 3

This time, when he woke up, Spock was not surprised to find someone else next to him in bed. Nor was he surprised to see his clothes from the night before in a pile by the door, next to Jim’s shoes and crumpled shirt. He smiled and turned to see Jim still sleeping, one bare arm curled beneath his head. Spock took a moment to study him, and a few seconds to feel embarrassed about the dark mark he’d left on Jim’s collarbone, before he rose quietly from the bed.

By the time Jim stirred, around 8:30, Spock had read two sections of the paper and finished his own breakfast. Jim fell onto the sofa next to him, rubbing his eyes. He wore Spock’s shirt again and, this time, just his shorts. It was a pleasing look on him. “Morning,” he said, and Spock set down his paper.

“Good morning.”

“How do you manage to be on television at night when you’re a morning person?” he said, then rested his head briefly on Spock’s shoulder. “Thank you for turning off my phone.”

Spock had made sure Jim’s phone was not only off but that the new, clever tracking program installed by Scott had been ruthlessly deactivated. “You seemed to need the rest,” Spock said. “Also, I admit, I did not want to encourage Mr. Scott’s unexpected presence.”

“Ha.” Jim sighed. “I, uh. About that —“

“What happens between two consenting adults in a non-professional context is not the concern of those who are not involved,” Spock said.

Jim snorted. “Does that work on your team? Because mine is pretty sure they have the rights to every story of my life.”

“I admit, I have yet to achieve the success I might have hoped for with that policy,” Spock said, “though I believe it may be due to the past personal relationships that exist within our group.”

“‘Past personal relationships,’” Jim echoed. “You mean that you’ve slept with everyone on your team.”

Spock paused, then saw no reason to deny it. “I would not precisely quantify our relationships as such,” he said, “as there was little sleep between Stonn and I, and he did not yet work for the network, but that is essentially correct.”

“Oh, Jesus, Bones owes me like eight hundred bucks,” Jim said, “not that I’m going to tell him, don’t worry. You and Stonn, huh? I knew you and Uhura, and I guessed T’Pring, but Stonn was a shot in the dark.”

“It was a unique situation.” They had been slightly drunk, and traveling as part of a research project, and had ended up three to a room in a small Midwestern hotel. The King-sized bed had accommodated Spock, Stonn, and T’Pring all quite comfortably.

“How come I get the station slut rep when you’ve gotten it on with your whole team?” Jim sounded amused, not truly offended. “For the record, I haven’t slept with anyone I work with until you — and I work with some damn fine people.”

“Really?” Spock glanced down and found Jim staring steadily back.

“You want to ask, go head," he said, voice quiet. “I know there are rumors.”

Spock frowned. “About — ah. Dr. Marcus.”

“It’s not really my story to tell,” Jim said, “but — probably everything you’ve heard is wrong. I can say that much, at least.”

“I was told she may have a new deal at ABC next year," Spock said.

“I hope so,” Jim said. “She deserves something better than the mid-afternoon break.”

Spock filed this away for further consideration later, then turned slightly to face Jim. “I do not require an accounting of your past romantic liaisons,” he said. “In fact — perhaps it would be best if we discussed the parameters of our own association?”

Jim blinked, then nodded, slowly. “Yeah, I can do that — but maybe after a little coffee? Unless you’ll be using slightly smaller words.”

Spock smiled in spite of himself. “I have some prepared in the kitchen.”

They settled at the bar with a cup apiece, Spock adding a dash of cream while Jim sipped his black. “So — you seem to like straight-forward talk, so I’ll lay out what I’m thinking and then you jump in. OK?” Spock nodded. “I like you. I’m surprised by it, a little, and I think you are, too, but — you’re fun to be around. I think we can be pretty good friends. And we’re clearly sexually compatible.” He paused, as though allowing Spock a chance to dispute this, but Spock had no arguments. “But I’m on the road most of the year, at least as long as Komack’s got the reins, and you’re just as married to your job as I am.”

“Indeed,” Spock said. Jim looked across Spock’s kitchen for a moment, as though considering, and Spock was surprised by how attractive he found the thoughtful curve of Jim’s face in profile. The night before had proven his lust for Jim’s well-tended physique, but today, he found himself surprised anew at his admiration. Jim took a moment to drink more coffee, and Spock turned his attention to his own mug, feeling off-center.

“So what if we just — do this?” Jim asked. “Keep chatting, get together when we’re both here, in whatever sense works, and — that’s our thing?” His eyes crinkled at the corners, slightly, as he finally turned back to look at Spock. “I don’t have the best track record with long-term, serious relationships, and it doesn’t sound like that’s what you’re after, either. Besides, I’m not sure either one of us wants this to be the story that lights up our careers.”

“I agree,” Spock said. “I believe the kind of friendly arrangement you’ve described perfectly encapsulates what I want. As much as I do see the benefits to close associations, my work has and will continue to come first.”

“Cheers to that,” Jim said lifting his coffee.

Spock nodded. “Though, I should be clear — are you describing an exclusive arrangement, or an open one?”

Jim scratched his neck, and his fingers brushed briefly over a curve that Spock could remember tasting. “I guess open?”

“That would be logical,” Spock said. “It hardly seems reasonable to extract a pledge of fidelity for a relationship that will be mostly friendly in nature.”

“Exactly.” Jim grinned. “One more question, then: How do you feel about sex in the shower?”

“Lukewarm,” Spock said, rising, “but I would be willing to reconsider the matter if there was new data to study.”

“Maybe your sample size was too small,” Jim said, leading him back toward the bathroom. “You need to validate through repetition. I think you’ll like the method and the results.”

Spock smiled. “Then, for science.”


	4. Chapter 4

That afternoon, they actually had the formal team meeting that Spock’s team had suggested the day before. Jim, now camera-ready in a pink dress shirt and slate-gray slacks, brought McCoy, Sulu, and Chapel, explaining that Scott was off “harassing someone in the equipment room.”

Spock brought his full team and their new intern, a bright grad student named Pavel Chekhov who had a ridiculous accent matched only by his ridiculously high aptitude scores and glowing recommendations. He sat quietly at the meeting, but Spock could tell he was about to burst from the excitement of simply being there. It was endearing and annoying in equal measures.

They mapped out a rough course for the summer and early fall: Jim’s team had a few planned week-long trips to areas where they were expected to face some kind of unpleasant weather, including time in the drought-stricken Mountain West, a stop in Chicago for a week of talking about climate change preparations, and a late-summer sweep through the northwest forests for fire season. They had tentative live film dates scheduled in Miami and New Orleans in mid-August and September, mostly because they could drive Scott’s new, customized “hurricane bus” around in the south for a month at the peak of the North Atlantic tropical cyclone season.

“But of course, everything will change,” Jim said, shrugging, as he pushed the final map across the table toward Spock. “First sign of convection over St. Louis or a depression heading toward the Leeward Islands and we’ll be on a plane.”

“Or a boat, if it’s like last summer,” Chapel grumbled, and Sulu laughed.

“I’m way better at parasailing now, for the record,” he said.

“Do you find that’s a skill you’re regularly called to display?” T’Pring asked, sounding genuinely curious.

Sulu wagged his eyebrows. “Tag along and you’ll find out.”

“Yeah, what he’s not saying is that Jim’s basically a disaster magnet,” McCoy said. “We could literally make a show out of how much worse a situation seems to get once Jim decides to beam on over.”

“Hey,” Jim said mildly.

Spock cleared his throat. “I believe your hypothesis lacks all scientific merit, Dr. McCoy,” he said, and Jim laughed while McCoy groaned. “However, I am aware that this schedule will be virtually meaningless once we have severe weather to cover. Could we talk a bit about how we’ll coordinate forecasting and also on-air priorities?”

That talk was a bit more straightforward and, to Spock’s relief, simple. Jim’s team had all been on camera at some point, and they didn’t mind more screen time when it came their way, but none of them — save Jim — were excited to anchor live coverage while on location. In storm reporting, the anchor would often be standing in the weather, expected to report what they were seeing, live, while also throwing to other distant reporters to collect their observations. It was a tricky piece of work, particularly when considering the inevitable failure of ear pieces and microphones. Spock felt confident in his own capability, and as the senior meteorologist, he would be expected to be on air during prime time. He had seen Jim make the process look effortless; McCoy would anchor if necessary, but no one else expressed much interest. “Sulu can be our third-string,” Jim said, “and after he’s exhausted, I guess we throw you out there, kid, and see what happens.” He grinned across at Chekov, who looked delighted at even the mention.

The plans were solid, and Spock had little difficultly believing they would be able to merge their two styles into complimentary coverage. In hindsight, though, he underestimated their abilities.

That summer was rife with storms: droughts and fires were present, as predicted, and heavy storms rolled through the Midwest, the rust belt, the south, and even as far east as upstate New York during Memorial Day weekend, leaving vacationers stranded and drenched after an onslaught of hail and tornadoes. Atlanta took a daily severe weather beating for a week, with heavy damage to infrastructure, and then flooding from the rains reached Louisiana and put a swath of Baton Rouge under water. Fourth of July saw lightning storms (and probably some drunken revelers) lighting up forests from Colorado to California, while unseasonably wet and windy weather canceled parades and celebrations all up and down the East Coast. Two weeks later, a heat wave spread over the biggest Northeastern cities while a separate event melted garbage bins in Phoenix. There were dust storms, sandstorms, and water spouts, baseball-sized hail and a mile-wide tornado, and even one freak avalanche high in the Rockies. It made for a dangerous summer — and for great television.


	5. Chapter 5

For most of May, Jim’s team traveled and Spock’s team backed them up from HQ. Between storms, Jim and Spock met in the city and shared drinks, late take-out dinners, and Spock’s bed. When Jim was traveling, they shared appearances in the evening from their corners of the weather world, often anchoring the prime-time evening broadcast together. It was strange to speak to Jim on camera in the evenings after they spent their days in long, informal, and sometimes intimate text message conversations. Their professional personas held, though, and fit nearly as neatly as they did.

“That’s what we’re seeing out here,” Jim said one afternoon, standing in a partially sheltered inlet to the north of Charleston. He was providing a live update for the 5 o’clock show; Spock was on shift from the Lab Deck. Jim’s station-emblazoned rain slicker glittered under the camera lights, though the street lights around him had gone dark. Behind him, trees bent and debris flapped past as the remnants of a major storm system made their way over the city. Moments earlier, he had inadvisably climbed on top of a concrete barrier to demonstrate the strength of the wind, and Spock had watched live as he was nearly blown off of his feet. “Of course, we’ll keep reporting through the night.”

“And we are grateful for your eyewitness reports, Jim,” Spock said as the camera came back to him in the studio, “though I am left to wonder whether you might be able to get a bit closer to the actual, dangerous part of the storm. Have you considered standing in the ocean itself?”

On screen, Jim grinned, holding one hand to his earpiece. “I’m told that’s a good way to damage the camera equipment, Spock, but I’ll see what I can do.”

“Please don’t make any special efforts. I rather like that camera,“ Spock said, watching Jim’s smile widen on screen. “We’ll check back in at the hour. For now, let’s review the newest information from the National Weather Service. It looks like we have an advisory…”

At the end of his shift, Spock took a break to get a coffee and review his own models. He found a message waiting on his phone: a photograph of a buoy bobbing in stormy seas.

Jim: _I think I can make it._

Spock: _I estimate your chances at less than 1 percent._

Jim: _Never tell me the odds._

Spock grinned in spite of himself, barely looking up as Nyota entered the break room. A new message popped up.

Jim: _def gusting at 60+_

Jim: _do you think if i tie myself to the concrete barrier i’d be ok for next stand-up, or is that overkill?_

Jim: _Probably great ratings tho_

“Kirk?” Nyota asked, then shook her head. “Why do I even ask?”

Spock tapped out, _Perhaps if you lash yourself to the railing with a go-pro, you can run footage all night._ “We were discussing his last appearance.”

She nodded and followed him back to their desks once she had a coffee, too. “I would tell you to tone down the flirting on air,” she said, “but I think it’s actually helping our ratings.”

The desks nearest them were empty, but Spock still kept his voice low. “I do not ‘flirt’ on the air.”

Nyota rolled her eyes. “Please. I edit and upload the video clips, remember?” She turned her screen so that Spock could watch a replay of the last conversation between Spock and Jim. In the video, he could see the twist of his own mouth more clearly and watch the delight roll over Jim’s face, even through the rain. “This will easily have twice as many hits as the others by tomorrow morning, and you’re hardly talking about the weather.”

“We had just spent five minutes on the storm, including his team’s package from earlier in the evening,” Spock protested.

“Hmm.” Her scowl fell away, and she rested one hand on his arm for a moment. “I’m glad you’re having fun,” she said. “But you can’t blame me for worrying a little. Or for teasing you, a lot.”

“I would expect nothing less,” Spock said.

She nodded and drew away. “Also,” she said, then pulled a bright yellow Post-It from a stack near her phone, “you’ve got an interview request.”

Spock raised an eyebrow. “From whom?”

“The television writer at The New York Times,” she said. “I’m not the only one who’s noticed you’re lighting up the airwaves, recently.”

Spock frowned. Personal profiles did not interest him, in part because he felt he did not lead an interesting life. However, he also had myriad personal reasons for avoiding attention focused on anything beyond his work, which Nyota knew. “I will consider it.”

“You should probably consider it an order,” she said, matching him with her own frown. “The request came through regular PR. Lori Ciana, specifically.”

That made a difference. Ciana reported directly to Komack and was the chief spokeswoman for the entire network. Spock found her ambitious, in an admirable way, and knew better than to cross her: if he were to ever do something that caught negative media attention, she would be a necessary ally. “I see.” He folded the Post-It note. “Did she mention if anyone else would also be interviewed?”

Nyota shook her head. “I had the impression that it was just you, but she left it a bit vague. No one else on our team is included, though if it’s face-to-face, I can go with you if you’d like.”

“I might,” Spock said. His own journalism training did not prepare him well for interviews that were conducted more casually or, for instance, during good weather. Nyota, on the other hand, had more recent experience with both digital-age journalism and communications, and he thought her expertise (and presence) might be comforting. “Thank you.”


	6. Chapter 6

Nyota wasn’t the only one at FWN who had noticed Spock’s on-air chemistry with Jim. Admiral Komack was delighted to find that his two best-recognized anchors were developing into a team of their own. “Ratings have been solid even when there’s no storm,” he said, grinning over the conference table during his weekly appearance at an evening rundown meeting. “Can’t wait to see what happens when we put you two both out there for some real action.”

“Yeah,” McCoy said, “can’t wait.” He was attending as the representative of Jim’s team, since they had landed for a planned three-day break earlier that day. A lull in storm activity meant that everyone was due for some vacation time. Spock had yet to see Jim, though they had made tentative plans to get together that evening. McCoy went on, glaring briefly (and for no reason that Spock could explain) across the table at him. “Nothin’ better than an honest-to-god natural disaster.”

“Our advertising department would agree," Komack said, and the meeting rolled on. When it wrapped up, Spock briefly considered stopping McCoy to ask about Jim’s whereabouts, but instead, he found Karen Komack waiting for him just outside.

“Have a minute?” she asked, and Spock understood it wasn’t really a question. He followed her to small, empty meeting room down the hall that they sometimes used for video conferencing. Karen ushered him in and closed the door, then leaned back against it, crossing her legs at the ankle. She wore a doubtlessly expensive dress that looked like a long, black polo shirt; he knew it was a dress and not just a shirt only because her legs were bare beneath it. Spock, in his usual daywear of black slacks and a crisp dress shirt, felt formal and a bit stuffy beside her. He took a position against the other wall, hands clasped behind his back.

“Don’t say anything to anyone,” she started, which made Spock begin to worry, “but do you remember a few months ago when we talked about a managerial shift?”

He did remember. Karen had invited him to her office for a drink one evening approximately four moths before. While he had held and nursed the same strong gin and tonic for an hour, she had laid out her newest plan to consolidate her own power at the network. It had boiled down to the idea of creating a managing editor position where none currently existed to oversee the weekly trends in their broadcasts. Karen felt one weakness of the network was its lack of coordination across shows. While the programs Spock oversaw, like _Live from the Lab Deck_ and his weekend show, all had a shared motif of scientific discovery and predictive forecasting, Karen had argued that many of their other programs squandered the opportunity to “thematically integrate.” She had mentioned the possibility of themed weeks. Spock distinctly remembered “shark week” being mentioned as a model, and he suppressed a sigh now.

“I think my father is finally coming around to it," she said, clenching her hands before her. Two delicate silver bracelets tinkled against her wrist. “But he’s only going to be convinced if I can hire internally. He’s got that fear of outside management, you know.”

“I do,” Spock said. This seemed a reasonable fear to him: an outsider would be likely to suggest sweeping managerial changes, such as Admiral Komack’s swift dismissal.

Karen nodded. “Good. That’s good. I just wanted to keep you posted. I think this could be a really exciting change.” Spock wasn’t sure that was true, though he did think further alignment between their programs wouldn’t be harmful to anyone. Before he could say it, though, Karen said, “And, look. I just wanted to say, ah, I know you’ve been playing nice with Kirk, and I appreciate it.”

Spock raised an eyebrow. “I find it no hardship,” he said, honestly. “Dr. Kirk has been quite easy to work with.”

Now Karen raised her brows. “That’s not how I usually hear him described.”

“No?”

She shook her head, playing with her silver bracelets. “Uh, no. Take this as a friendly warning, OK? Kirk’s not the kind of guy you want to be friends with.”

Too late, Spock thought, but knew it didn’t show on his face. “Oh?”

“Definitely not.” She ran one hand through her hair, though it still fell in immaculately coifed waves when she was done. “He’s all show, no substance. I shouldn’t be telling you this, but I value our relationship, Spock. I think of you not just as someone who works for me, but as a friend.” Spock nodded, affirming that he understood her thinking and knowing it would appear that he reciprocated. “When he first started here, Kirk — he hit on me. A lot.” She shook her head, pausing as though in recall of something trying. “It was flattering. Dad’s always been a big fan of his father’s, and so I let it go too far. I blame myself for that, but — well.” She frowned, her eyes focused at the floor. “He was only interested in me as a career move, you know? I heard him tell his friend he was after me because I was a step up the corporate ladder.”

Spock frowned. “I am sorry to hear that,” he said.

She shrugged. “It’s water under the bridge, now. I broke it off, after that, although it took him a while to get the message. Eventually he left me alone. Once I said I’d report him to my father, he knocked it off in a hurry, and thank God. Dad’s been crazy about the Kirk star power since he first brought him on.” Now, Karen smiled again, and stepped briefly closer, long enough to lay one manicured hand on Spock’s biceps. “I know you and I want the same things for the network: to make a real difference, in broadcasting and science. I just wanted to say I’m sorry that you have to deal with Kirk and all of his grandstanding.”

“Thank you,” Spock said, standing rigidly until she removed her hand. “I appreciate that you are willing to speak your mind to me.”

“Of course. I’m nearly late for tennis, anyway.” They emerged into the hallway just as McCoy bustled past, and he frowned at them both as he went by. Spock thought for only a moment before calling out, “Dr. McCoy?”

“Yeah, what is it?”

Spock turned to Karen, grateful for this easy exit. “Please excuse me. I need to consult with Dr. McCoy about tonight’s broadcast in more detail.”

“Of course,” she said, and she touched his shoulder briefly before he walked away.

McCoy stood impatiently at the end of the hall, arms crossed. “What?”

“Am I keeping you from a prior engagement?”

McCoy huffed and resumed walking, and Spock followed. “If you must know, Chapel was supposed to be keeping an eye on Scotty, and he’s slipped the leash again. So I’m headed to the equipment deck to make sure he’s not about to get the whole damn team blown up — or worse, fired.”

“Might I suggest your priorities may be incorrect?”

“You can suggest anything you want, so long as you keep your trap shut and help me find Scotty.”

Spock nodded his agreement. Soon, they were on the 13th floor, where Scott was easily located by following the sound of accented shouting and a blaring alarm. “I was only goin’ to borrow it!” Scotty was saying as they led him away. Spock, who knew the technologist on staff well enough to remember her children’s birthdays, had quickly managed to smooth over the near-theft, though Scott wasn’t making it easy.

“That’s what you said last time,” McCoy said, “and I think you might still owe Jim for the late fees, after we stole it back from you to return it.”

“Well, it paid off, didn’t it?”

Sulu and Chapel met them at the end of the hall. Chapel had her arms crossed and wore an expression that reminded Spock of the skies before a tornado. “Just ‘going to the loo,' huh?” she said, and a moment later, Scott had been whisked away.

“Well, that’s taken care of for fifteen minutes, at least,” McCoy said. “What did you need again?”

“Merely an escape route,” Spock admitted, following McCoy to the elevator bay. When McCoy cast a curious glance over at Spock, Spock gestured to elevators. A moment later, one opened, but Spock passed it up in favor of the next, empty car. Inside, as they sped up 20 floors, he said, “Karen Komack stopped to warn me against being friends with Jim.”

“Did she now.” McCoy leaned back against the elevator wall. “How’d that talk go over?”

“If her objective was to make me speak to Jim less frequently, I would hazard a guess that it will have approximately no impact.”

McCoy cracked a brief smile. “What’d she say?”

“She said —“ The doors slid open, and Spock straightened his shirt as they walked out. By some silent agreement, they walked over to Jim’s team conference room to continue their conversation. The conference room itself was luxuriously large, an L-shaped room with space enough for a table that sat 20 and an alcove where catering could be set up. Even allowing that, at the moment it felt almost cramped, strewn with luggage and other travel detritus, including two large shipping cases and what appeared to be a pile of sleeping bags in the alcove. Stacks of three-ring binders wobbled precariously next to five different laptops on the table. McCoy gestured Spock toward a seat at the nearly clear head of the table, then he flipped a switch that turned the glass walls opaque.

“All right,” McCoy said, walking toward the coffee service, “what’d she say?”

“She said that she and Jim had had a romantic liaison early in his career here that was motivated, on his side, by a desire to climb the corporate ladder. She implied that he remained on staff only through her father’s desire for star power.”

McCoy snorted as he filled a silver travel mug from the coffee pot. “You want any?” Spock shook his head. “What’d you think of that story?”

He could feel that this was a test, and though McCoy was prickly and at times obnoxious, he was Jim’s best friend. Spock wanted to pass and, more than that, had a feeling the truth would do it. “It’s clearly false,” Spock said. “For one, ignoring for a moment his phenomenal on-screen charisma, Jim’s technical skill and scientific expertise are exceptional and run directly counter to any implication that he maintains his position through any other means.”

McCoy sat at the table, nodding, sipping his coffee. “You mean to say he’s smarter than everyone else here, and it’d be a goddamned shame if they lost him.”

“In so many words, yes,” Spock said.

“What about the harassment stuff?”

Spock frowned. “The only male staff member here who I have ever encountered practicing such deplorable behavior is Admiral Komack himself, and I have seen that Jim, also, holds him in low regard for this. In addition, though I will admit to some manner of bias because of our friendship —“

“Is that what they’re calling it these days?” McCoy said, softly, into his coffee cup, and Spock continued.

“— I find I cannot picture a scenario in which I believe Jim would willfully mislead a sexual partner for personal gain.” He looked down at his own hands. “I have yet to discern Karen’s motives for lying to me about this.”

“It’s a power struggle.” Spock looked up, quickly, at the sound of a familiar voice, and recognized Jim’s tousled head emerging from the pile of sleeping bags behind the storage crates. “Hey, by the way. Sorry I wasn’t in the meeting, but someone maybe drugged me on the way home.” Jim glared at McCoy, who shrugged and kept calmly drinking his coffee.

“Hello,” Spock said. “I did not realize you were present.”

Jim ran his hands through his hair, smirking. “Or you wouldn’t have said all those nice things, huh?”

“No, your presence would have had little influence on that,” Spock said. “I prefer to speak the truth no matter the audience.”

Jim’s smile, this time, lit up slowly, and he shook his head before it took over his face. “Lemme find my feet and get some of that coffee, all right?”

As he stretched, Spock caught only a brief glance before he made himself look away. Jim wore threadbare jeans and a long-sleeved T-shirt, gray with blue arms. Both, Spock noted, hugged every curve of his muscular frame, making even his swift glimpse too long if the goal had been to discourage his own illogically heated thoughts. Spock looked instead at McCoy. “Do you regularly drug your teammates, or was this a special circumstance?”

“Hell, it’s always a special circumstance with that one,” McCoy said. “And I didn’t sneak up and hit him with a syringe or anything. I gave him a sleeping pill.”

“And told me it was Tylenol!”

“It was Tylenol,” McCoy said, voice flat. “Tylenol P.M.”

“Why was this necessary?”

Jim rolled his head around, and Spock could hear his neck crack. “I was on camera for six hours before we flew out —“

“— And awake for another 15 before that,” McCoy said, “about eight of those spent out in the weather!”

“— and I promised I’d sleep en route,” Jim said, “but — coming off air like that, I can’t just shut off.”

Spock watched Jim pour himself a cup of coffee. He thought of the last time he’d done a field report and how he’d felt coming off the air and back into his hotel room, the wired exhaustion that had haunted him all night. “Though I feel it is an inefficient use of network resources to keep you on air for that long,” Spock said, “I understand how that would make it difficult to rest.”

Jim nodded as he sat at the table. McCoy reached over and swiped Jim’s coffee. “I’m glad someone does. Drink decaf if you’ve got to, for Christ’s sake. You’re going to sleep ten hours tonight if I have to chain you to the damn couch.”

Jim grinned. “Kinky, but I admit, I was about to find out if I’d need to occupy your couch at all.”

Spock tipped his head. “You are welcome to stay with me, of course.”

“Of course,” McCoy said, and rolled his eyes. “Just make sure he gets some sleep, will you?”

“While I would not resort to chaining anyone to the furniture,” Spock said, “I would also support a lengthy rest period.”

“I’m sure we’ll both need it.” Jim winked at him, and Spock was certain he blushed.

“Annnnnyway," McCoy drawled, glaring at them both, “before I vomit all over you two lovebirds, you gonna finish your story about Karen or what, Jim?”

“You sure I can’t have that coffee? OK, OK. So, actually, most of her story is true,” Jim said, “except for one little detail: She came on to me when I first started here, and she wouldn’t take no for an answer.” He shook his head. “It lasted for, like, six months: phone calls, text messages, deliveries. Stupid shit. She’d buy tickets to things and invite me along at the last minute, try to pass it off like a business meeting and then it would be only the two of us there. That kind of thing. I wasn’t traveling as much then, but I found a way to be out of the office whenever I could, just to avoid her. She told me I’d move up more quickly if I’d just play along, but I wasn’t interested in getting a promotion that way. I tried letting her down gently, at first, and then I tried to be as straightforward as possible, and nothing got through. When avoidance stopped being a realistic option, I told her if she kept it up, I’d tell her father.”

“And she stopped?”

“Not until I had Scotty put together a digital dossier of all the messages and creepy shit she’d done.” He shrugged. “Once she realized she was caught, she stopped, pretty much cold, on the condition that I deleted all of the dossier.”

Spock narrowly held himself back from reaching out to touch Jim’s arm. “Did you consider reporting her anyway?”

“Yeah,” Jim said, “but only for about two minutes. Her dad owns the network, and that family has connections everywhere. My word against hers, even with all the messages, the best case scenario is I win some cash in a court case after everything getting splashed over the news. I couldn’t see a way to do it and also keep my job, not really, and if I went, my team would go, too.” He looked up at Spock. “I’m surprised she told you, but then again, I don’t think long-term thinking is her strong suit.”

“She likely believes that my loyalty to her is sufficient that I would take any accusations at face value,” Spock said.

“Any of that true?” McCoy asked.

“It has been expedient to cultivate her beliefs as such," Spock said, “if not entirely honest.”

“See, now, I want to like you,” McCoy said, “but then you go fancy up what could’ve been a quick ‘nah’ and I hate you all over again.”

“I shall learn to live with the disappointment,” Spock said, and Jim laughed into the cup of coffee he’d managed to steal back from McCoy. “Jim, do you believe she wants you to leave the network?”

Jim nodded, face suddenly serious. “It’s gotta make her nervous that I’m still here at all.”

“Lord knows it does for the rest of us,” McCoy said, and then he clapped Jim on the shoulder. “I’m gonna go make sure Scott’s tucked in, then I guess I’m getting ready for a guest-shot tonight. Unless you changed your mind about later…?” he said, and Jim shook his head.

“I’ve got plans,” he said, and the suggestion in it was plain. McCoy rolled his eyes and departed, grumbling, and Spock decided it was in his best interests not to meet Jim’s gaze at the moment. “Are you — how much longer are you here today?” Jim asked. “I’m not rushing you, I promise. I’ve got plenty to keep me busy.”

“I believe I could leave now,” Spock said. “My final on-air appearance has concluded, and my presence is not necessary for the nightly run-down. I have no scheduled appearances during the late news hour, either.”

“Really?” Spock knew he wasn’t imagining the relief that flickered over Jim’s face.

“I need only a moment to gather my things. Do you need assistance carrying your bags downstairs?” Spock asked, but Jim shook his head.

“I travel light," he said, and a moment later had pulled on a backpack.

Spock raised an eyebrow. “You must have more belongings than that.”

“Sure,” he said, as they walked toward Spock’s desk. He actually hadn’t been intending to leave quite so soon, but now, he saw little reason to stay. Jim was only in town for three days, barring major weather catastrophe, and Spock had no guarantee of monopolizing that time. Tonight, at least, was his, so he gathered his own things into his messenger bag and waved goodbye to Stonn and T’Pring. They understood, of course, and Spock understood that he would pay for this eager early departure with some manner of teasing in the near future.

He turned his attention back to Jim. “Where do you keep your things?” Spock asked as they approached the elevator.

Jim scratched his head, clearly considering. “Some stuff is in storage, some of it lives with my mom, and a big chunk of my closet actually lives at Sulu’s place for the time being.”

That was surprising. “May I ask why?”

“We’re about the same size," Jim said, and then laughed at what must have been Spock’s confused expression. “Nah, I’m messing with you. He and his husband have a killer apartment with extra closet room. He offered, so I took him up on it.” Jim shrugged, unsettling his backpack, and Spock was reminded of the first time they had slept together like this. Then, though, Jim hadn’t had obvious dark rings under his eyes or a brightly manic manner that Spock associated with long stretches of wakefulness. Perhaps sleep would be their first order of business.

When they reached Spock’s apartment, Jim managed what looked like a jaw-cracking yawn while Spock unlocked the door. Inside, though, after he set down his bag, he slid his hands around Spock’s waist, under his jacket. “Hi there,” he said, and kissed him.

Spock kissed back, his own hands curling softly around Jim’s shoulders. “Hello.”

Jim smiled. “Want to take these greetings somewhere horizontal? I feel there’s a lot of me that would like to say a lot of hellos to a lot of you.”

“I am amenable to that greeting," Spock said, watching Jim’s smile widen. “However — I believe we should slightly postpone.”

“Oh? Oh, sorry, you’re probably hungry. It’s — is it near dinner?”

“No,” Spock said, and he gently cupped Jim’s face in one hand, “but I believe we might both benefit from a nap.”

“A nap.” Jim’s eyes narrowed. “Does Bones have something on you? I swear, he’s not half as scary as he —“

“You are exhausted,” Spock said, quietly. “I would like to help you rest.”

Jim looked up at him for just a moment, as though studying him for a lie, and then looked down. He let his head bump against Spock’s collarbone, and Spock gently rested his fingers at the nape of Jim’s neck. “Okay,” Jim murmured. “Thanks.”

“You are welcome.”

Jim slept through the evening, surfacing only briefly to drink a glass of water before padding back to bed. After dozing gently for an hour or so, Spock lay in bed reading on his phone until it ran out of power, at which point he, too, decided to turn in for the night. When he woke first the next morning, he made his way quietly to the kitchen, where he cautiously regarded Jim’s blinking phone on the counter. Scott had probably already figured out where Jim was for the evening, so it probably would be fine to leave it on — but Spock didn’t particularly think Jim should have any interruptions at the moment. He picked it up to turn it off, and the lock screen displayed the two most recently missed messages. One, predictably, was from McCoy, and said only _IF UR READING THIS U SHD B SLEEPING ASSHOLE_. The other was from a very familiar telephone number and said, _You ever gonna return my calls or what?_

Spock set the phone down without turning it off. He knew he was right about the familiar number: he’d had to memorize it, once, as part of his first job with the Federation networks. To see it again on Jim’s phone was… curious, he told himself, not willing to admit that his stomach had twisted slightly. It probably didn’t mean anything, and even if it did, well, that was fine. Jim’s life and career were his own.

Jim woke about an hour later. Spock knew this because he heard rustling in the bedroom and then the rush of the shower. He started putting breakfast together, having somehow forgotten to eat since he’d woken up. Dividing fruit and yogurt into two bowls felt soothing, slightly domestic, and he spared a fraction of a section to worry about whether it was too presumptuous. No. Jim had slept with him — just slept — and clearly had been planning to stay with Spock. He’d told McCoy, at least, and had been openly flirting with him. Spock had no reason to doubt his regard, and he also did not doubt his own. It was, after all, foolish to worry that their relationship would somehow be better served by a dishonest aloofness. Spock liked Jim. He liked the idea of making him breakfast. He continued.

Jim walked out wearing only his shorts. “I think I left my bag out here,” he said, then paused. “And I totally should’ve made sure you were the only one home. Ah. No assistant hanging around, right?”

“My house manager only comes in after I have left for work, in the late afternoons,” Spock said. He looked Jim up and down as obviously as possible. “Please wear as little clothing as you’d like in the mornings.”

Jim grinned and winked at him, then crossed to his backpack. “Sexy as that sounds, right now, I just want to trade out for clean shorts.” He hefted up the bag, then glanced around and noticed his phone. As he lifted it, he touched the screen, then groaned.

Spock chose not to comment, as Jim was already heading back to the bedroom. When he emerged a few minutes later in clean clothes, Spock had just finished pulling two pieces of whole-wheat sourdough bread from the toaster. He offered one to Jim, who took the seat next to him.

“Thanks, yeah. This is nice.” He grinned over his bowl of yogurt, then leaned over and, to Spock’s surprise, kissed his cheek. “Seriously," he said, mouth still close to Spock’s ear, “thank you. For everything.”

Spock brushed his hand lightly up and down Jim’s side. “You are most welcome.”

They ate and chatted lightly about Jim’s recent travels, though Spock knew most of the broad details from their texts and from working together. When he had emptied his bowl, Jim stood and reached for Spock’s, headed to the sink. “Least I can do,” he said.

“I have a dishwasher,” Spock said.

Jim set the bowls down and tossed a towel over his shoulder. “Then I guess I’ll familiarize myself.” As he rinsed the bowls, his phone buzzed on the counter. It was unusual for either of them to ignore a call, even this early, but Jim paid it no mind. The phone buzzed again, clattering against the marble countertop.

Spock resisted the urge to reach out and silence it. “Would you like me to hand you your phone?” Jim shook his head and didn’t turn. “Avoiding someone?”

“A little. But it’s not someone I can actually avoid for long, unfortunately.”

“Ah.” Spock connected it to the message he’d read and decided that was a surprisingly accurate description of the man. “Someone I know?”

“Oh, yeah, probably,” Jim said. “Everyone knows him.” He set the bowls into the dishwasher, then turned around, leaning on the counter. “Uh, maybe, don’t tell anyone this, all right? It’s — it’s not illegal or dangerous, I swear, just kind of embarrassing.”

“Of course.”

He dried his hands as he spoke, not looking at Spock. “Chris Pike has been calling me, from the network. You know him?”

Spock nodded. “I do. My first job here was as his executive assistant.”

“Really?” Jim looked impressed. “And you survived?”

“Clearly.” Jim kept staring, but Spock didn’t need to tell that whole story. Not yet. “For what reason has he been calling you?”

Jim rubbed one hand through his hair from behind, giving it a spiky, mussed look that was distractingly appealing. “About a job.”

Spock narrowed his eyes. Two meteorologists worked full-time for the main network: one did the morning weather for the daily five-to-nine talk show, and one acted as her understudy. As one of the major networks, the Federation Broadcast Network did cover major weather stories — but that was about all. FBN outsourced most of their dire weather reporting to FWN and often called on anchors and staff from FWN as guests. Spock was never called for these appearances, partly because of his prior work and existing understanding with Christopher Pike, and partly because he loathed leaving his weather studio for the frankly sub-par equipment available at the network’s main office.

However, some people enjoyed their appearances and work with FBN. Jim, a frequent guest weather reporter and at least one-time guest host on the morning show, was a likely candidate if any of the current staff were leaving. “Is Cassidy leaving?” Spock asked, picturing the morning show meteorologist.

“Uh, not that I know of,” Jim said. “The job is — it’s more like a reporting job. It is a reporting job, actually. Pike’s pretty sure that I could helm an hour on FNN.”

FNN was the Federation News Network, a 24-hour cable channel dedicated to in-depth coverage of news and politics in particular. Pike, as news director for the main network, was also involved in programming for FNN. This was not what Spock had expected to hear, and he blinked and thought it OK to let his surprise show. “Anchoring your own show?”

“I guess," Jim said, shrugging one shoulder. “It’s more of a long-term goal, I think. Spend a year guest-hosting for Jose Mendez, then maybe spring into my own chair after that.”

This seemed an interesting and serious turn of events. Spock knew that the broadcast journalists at their network were split pretty neatly into two groups: those who loved the study of climate science and sometimes enjoyed appearing on television to explain it, and those who loved appearing on television and had used proficiency in climate science to secure their place there. Firmly in the first group fell nearly all of Spock’s team and, of course, Spock himself. He suspected that most of Jim’s team, despite their reputations, actually delighted in the scientific work they did more than the career advancement possibilities available.

He was less certain about Jim. Only a handful of weeks ago, he would have readily held up Jim Kirk as the poster child for on-air talent whose major talent was being on air. Now, though, he saw the conflict in Jim himself over whether more airtime and live stand-ups were beneficial for their audience. He had also heard first-hand Jim’s expert grasp on climate science and heard the passion with which he discussed the need for climate change action. “Is there a theme to the show?”

“Basically, whatever I want,” Jim said, shrugging. “Not a weather show, per se, but maybe pretty heavy on climate science.”

Spock’s stomach clenched, briefly, as he realized what this would mean. “That sounds enticing.”

“It should be,” Jim said, “but — there’s a catch. Less travel.”

“I am surprised to hear that this is a catch.”

Jim nodded. He twisted the towel in his hands as he spoke. “I wouldn’t mind being in town more, that’s true. But that’s not what Chris is talking about. He’s talking about me on camera, behind the desk in the studio, four or five days a week. In a suit, make-up, the whole deal. If we want to do something live on location, we’d have to set up in advance and maybe film over the weekend.”

That did not surprise Spock. Christopher Pike ran a tight ship, and he knew the ratings books up and down. Unless a show managed to swing an enormously popular guest host, numbers went down when the primary name wasn’t in the primary seat. If Jim signed on to be the lead for a news program, he would have to physically be there, at the helm of that project, 90 percent of the time.

“From what I know of him,” Spock said, slowly, not at all sure he wanted to encourage Jim in this pursuit but knowing, also, it was logical to tell the truth, “after a trial period, he would likely let you do as you would.”

“Maybe,” Jim said. “It’s — I dunno. It’s complicated. I’m not sure it’s the right fit, or the right time.”

“No?”

Jim set the towel down and stepped forward, wrapping his hands around his coffee mug. “I just — I want to feel like I’ve earned it a little more than this.”

Spock sipped his own drink, unsure of how to respond. He had never seen Jim express self-doubt before. Some modesty would perhaps be useful, but his professional success as a broadcaster was not an area in which Jim usually chose to practice any. “Do you not feel your success so far would warrant this?”

“I do pretty well on our network,” Jim said, easily, just stating fact. Spock appreciated this logical self-awareness. “I pull decent numbers. Nothing for Komack to complain about. But I don’t think I have the following that Chris thinks I do, and even if he’s right about the portability of some of my audience, they wouldn’t come over expecting me to sit behind a desk and talk global crisis or Washington bullshit, you know? They’d be there for the travel and the weather and the adventure of it.”

While that all made sense, it was also, Spock knew, bullshit. “Jim, I have no doubt, and I’m certain Christopher has no doubt, that you would find that balance, and that once you found it, your audience would celebrate your elevation accordingly.”

Jim looked across at him, and the corner of his mouth lifted in a disbelieving smirk. “You really like me, huh?”

“Most of the time,” Spock said pointedly, and Jim laughed. “What is your real objection to this offer?”

“Do you know how Pike got into working in television?”

That pulled Spock up short. He had worked for Pike for eighteen extraordinarily long months, and during that time, he had carried out all manner of tasks, running the gamut from tedious to challenging to outright bizarre. The job had been squarely about the present and future, though, not Pike’s past. Yet Spock felt it buzzing on the tip of his metaphorical tongue: he knew this, but he couldn’t remember. “Television,” he said, slowly. “Entertainment side, I believe.”

“Right,” Jim said. “Entertainment, like my dad’s show.”

And just like that, the puzzle was solved. “Christopher Pike knew your father.”

“He did. He and my mother are still on friendly terms, too.” Jim swirled his coffee around, took a big sip, and then walked around to mess with the coffee pot. Spock continued assembling the pieces around why Jim would be resistant to an otherwise amazing opportunity.

“You believe his offer stems from this friendship?” Jim looked away: a yes. “I do not believe anyone gets an anchor’s chair on the strength of friendship, under Pike’s watch.”

“No, you’re right. But — of all the choices, across all the networks, I shouldn’t be his first thought. I probably shouldn’t be in the top 10, you know? I’m a risk.”

Spock raised an eyebrow. “I did not think you minded risk.”

“I don’t mind taking risks,” Jim said, “but I don’t know if I like being one. And I don’t know that my crew would make the transition with me, anyway. It’s just not a good fit.” He shrugged. “Honestly, I’ve been putting off answering him for a few weeks, and I shouldn’t. I guess I know what my answer is, huh?” He smiled just slightly and walked back to the counter. “Thanks for listening, actually. I’d been fighting through this in my head, but it’s nice to talk it out.”

“Anytime,” Spock said, brushing his fingers gently over the back of Jim’s hand. “You’re always welcome to use me as a sounding board.”

“Hmm. And as a breakfast chef, and a pillow, if I remember last night correctly.” He grinned, suddenly fully focused on Spock. “Speaking of which — I feel like I haven’t adequately expressed my gratitude for your help with getting such good rest last night.”

“While I am, of course, amenable to what I believe you’re suggesting,” Spock said, and Jim wagged his eyebrows, “I do want to be clear that we don’t need to have sex every time you come over.”

Jim shook his head as though he perhaps hadn’t heard correctly. “Uh, what? You don’t want to?”

“I believe you are clear on exactly how much I enjoy having sex with you,” Spock said, raising an eyebrow. “But, more to the point, I also enjoy your company. You’re welcome here whether or not you seek more intimate preoccupations.”

The coffee maker sighed, turning itself off with one final flicker of steam, and Jim looked over at it. “You’re pretty serious about being straightforward, huh?”

“I lack the spare time that it would take to obfuscate,” Spock said, “and I hardly see the point.”

When Jim finally looked over at him, he was a bit wide-eyed, his expression otherwise serious. “So, it’s OK if I stay tonight? We’re in town until Friday.”

“That would be fine," Spock said.

“But I’d still like to have sex right now, if you’re up for it.”

Spock smiled. “That, too, would be fine.”


	7. Chapter 7

After that one, chaste night (and admittedly less chaste morning), their relationship experienced a small change: Jim stopped coming over just for sex. Instead, they had nights together that were as much about companionship as physical attraction, in the same way their text conversations were as much friendly banter as flirting. Spock liked the change, and he liked that it allowed him to see more of Jim, although they still kept pretty close to the safety of Spock’s four enclosed walls.

Another six weeks passed with this new pattern. When both Jim and Spock were in New York for a day or two, an increasing rarity once the network needed Spock to travel to cover summer storms, they stayed at Spock’s apartment. Sometimes, it was a wild and energetic romp; others, it was a few hours of watching television and making wisecracks about the gear their local weather reporters tried to pull off. Both were equally satisfying to Spock.

Nyota and McCoy continued to be the only people who’d had confirmation of their romantic relationship. T’Pring and Stonn had certainly guessed, and Spock thought Jim’s crew all basically knew, as well, but he agreed with Jim’s assessment that “there’s a world of difference between thinking you know and knowing you know.” As they had not discussed changing their relationship status from a string of friendly sexual encounters to something more exclusive or meaningful, Spock thought it wise not to advertise widely that their chemistry extended beyond their on-air appearances.

In early August, Spock was sent into the field to cover flooding in Louisiana while Jim stayed in Atlanta to cover storm damage. They took over the 11 o’clock hour for a few days, throwing back and forth to each other, to Sulu in another part of Louisiana, to McCoy outside of a few flooded regional medical centers, and to T’Pring at HQ. Then, finally, Komack apparently got fed up with the split screen and audio delays and ordered Jim down to Baton Rouge. For the first time in their relationship, they shared the same broadcast space for a night — never mind that it was a flooded parking lot across from their hotel. Wearing their FWN rain slickers (Spock’s in blue, Jim’s a greenish-gold), they broadcast live through three hours of gusting winds and on-and-off downpours. Nyota shouted National Weather Service and global satellite updates through Spock’s earpiece while Jim spent every moment off screen texting rapidly with Scott and Sulu about where to send them next for additional live footage. At midnight, they threw back to the overnight anchors in the studio, and the light blinked out over the camera. Spock stared out across the parking lot, where the rain traveled in sheets through the few still-shining lights, and felt the exhaustion hit him like a gust.

Jim gripped Spock’s arm just above the elbow. “Let’s go,” he said, and Spock nodded, following him back to where the network equipment was settled. They both peeled off to make sure their crews were set for the evening. Jim huddled in the back of the satellite truck, talking to Sulu by phone, while Spock and Chekov compared notes in the front seat. Chekov would monitor the overnight alerts, with an assist from Stonn at HQ, and wake him if another on-air appearance seemed necessary. The radar showed one more band of storms likely to wander through around 1:30, but no one was very excited about them.

“They won’t help the flooding, but at least the winds look low,” Jim said, running a hand through his wet hair. He was leaning into the cab of the truck from outside, watching a radar playback on Chekov’s tablet. “Lots of damage to survey tomorrow, I bet.”

“Indeed.” Spock pulled his rain slicker back around himself, ready to depart.

“If anything does happen, I should knock or call you?” Chekov asked.

Jim’s hand rested briefly on Spock’s biceps as he climbed down from the truck, an unnecessary steadying. “Call, please,” Spock said, “though I hope not to hear from anyone until morning.”

“I share this hope,” Chekov said. “Good night, sir.”

Jim shook his head as they crossed the lot toward their hotel. “Sir, huh?”

“I find him appropriately respectful,” Spock said, and Jim laughed.

In the hotel lobby, the flatscreen television was playing FWN. Though it had been crowded and hectic earlier in the day, the crowd now had dwindled to a few weary residents in pajamas playing cards in one corner of the lobby and a tired desk clerk sorting papers at the counter. Jim squished his way over to the front desk to ask for a wake-up call and extra coffee, and Spock stopped in the pool area to grab extra towels. As he dried his face and hair, he watched the flat-screen television playing in the pitiful fitness center. Like most screens nearby, it had been tuned to FWN. T’Pring, in a suit, was standing in front of the Lab Deck monitors, doubtlessly explaining the finer points of the flood risk for the next few days. Eighty-thousand people had lost power, but there had been, so far, no fatalities. Spock doubted that would hold.

He chucked the wet towel aside and grabbed several extras, then walked back into the lobby, where another television was playing the same channel. T’Pring segued to highlights from their footage that evening already, and soon Spock was staring into his own unnaturally pale face, lit up by the truck’s spotlight. Jim stood next to him, and he was gesturing broadly to the invisible destruction behind them, animated and engaging even on mute. As the real, live Jim approached, Spock watched his on-screen self watch Jim.

“We look good,” Jim said, jabbing the elevator’s up button. “Too bad, really. It means Komack’s gonna be on you to hit the road the rest of the summer.”

Spock handed Jim a towel and accepted a bottle of water in trade. “I believe that was already on my schedule,” he said, stepping into the elevator. They stood several feet apart, further from one another than they had been most of the evening as they’d tried to fit into one shot. Spock’s body shivered with the same exhaustion he had felt outside, but now, as well, he felt the thrumming adrenaline that had built up over several hours of fighting weather and technology in front of a live audience. Added to that was the sudden jolt of desire he felt as he watched Jim rub the towel over his hair and face, water still sliding down the curve of his neck into his jacket. He was staring when the doors opened, which he knew because Jim gave him an up-and-down look and a raised eyebrow.

Jim’s hand briefly brushed the small of his back as they left the elevator, then fell away. The third floor had been taken over by their crew: network-monogrammed duffel bags hunched outside of the two nearest rooms. Several doors stood propped open, and the sound of FWN and FBN broadcasts spilled into the hall, mingling with the laughter of their colleagues. They were surrounded.

“Mine is this way,” Jim said, gesturing toward the left.

“Ah,” Spock said. “Mine is not.” His own room was at the opposite end of the hallway, adjoining Nyota’s room. They had been assigned by an efficient travel assistant, no doubt, likely ecstatic that they could find any rooms left. Jim’s team could have slept in the Enterprise if they’d had to, but Baton Rouge was large enough to have space for everyone, even in these conditions.

A burly man in an FWN hat and a stretched-thin black T-shirt ambled by, carrying an ice bucket. “Hey, captain,” he said, high-fiving Jim. “You goin’ back out?”

“Nah, I’m wrapped,” Jim said. “How ‘bout you, Terry?”

“Subbing in at 3 if I hafta,” he said, “but I’m hopin’ it don’t come to that. Hey, doc,” he said, nodding at Spock, and Spock nodded back. “Grab a drink if you want one in 314. Cooler’s on the left.”

“Thanks,” Jim said.

Spock said, “Captain?”

Jim grinned. “I find him appropriately respectful.”

“Hm.” He had pressed back against the wall to give Terry room to pass, and Jim was leaning on the wall next to him. They were close enough to kiss, easily, and Spock spent a moment considering Jim’s lips. 

“OK, come on,” Jim said, and grabbed Spock’s shoulders. He turned him and propelled him down the hall, past what appeared to be a raucous card game in another room and Terry fighting with the ice machine. A moment later, they were in Jim’s room, and Jim had him cornered against the closed door. He reached up to put on the chain lock.

“Was that wise?” Spock wondered.

“Which part?” Jim’s hand stayed on the door, effectively boxing Spock in. “Our efficient escape, or the part where you were looking at me like an ice cream cone in the hallway?”

“Fair point,” Spock said.

“They’re all old hands, anyway,” Jim said. A single rain drop slid down his neck, and Spock wanted to taste it. “They know what it’s like in a storm.”

“What,” Spock said, almost whispering now, because Jim was so close he could feel the heat of his body through the chill of two rain slickers, “is it like, exactly?”

Jim smiled, and Spock could feel it against his own mouth. “Let me show you.”

* * *

Chekov did not call until 5:45, when it was time to make a new plan for the day. “Thank you,” Spock said, after he had explained that a conference call with HQ would take place at 6:30.

“Do you think I should call Dr. Kirk?” he asked.

“I believe I can alert him,” Spock said, glancing behind him in the bed. Jim was sprawled, naked, over the sheets, his eyes open and focused sleepily on Spock. He disconnected the call, then turned and rested one hand on Jim’s bare calf. “We have a conference call with HQ in 45 minutes.”

“Mm.” Spock’s hand traced a path up to his flat belly. Jim’s penis arced a few inches below his hand. “Plenty of time,” he murmured, urging Spock’s hand lower.

“Indeed,” Spock said, and bent to kiss him.

By the time the call started, they were both dressed and sitting at the small table in Spock’s hotel room. Spock had showered and pulled on a white collared shirt and gray slacks; Jim wore sturdy dark jeans and a blue Meteorologists Do It Under All Conditions T-shirt. Nyota smirked in the background, typing, as they talked over Spock’s iPhone, set on speaker.

“We could use a few composed packages of what you’re seeing on the ground,” Stonn said.

Spock glanced back at Nyota. “We can film this morning and gather background during that time. Nyota can send rough edits by lunch.”

“Scotty can help with that,” Jim said. “And your little guy, Chekov. I bet we can get him to run around and do van footage.”

They agreed on the timing for their next live stand-ups, and T’Pring updated them on the models at HQ and through the NWS. It would be a drier day, but there remained a small chance for afternoon thunderstorms, and with those would come the threat of further flooding. The rivers had not yet crested, either. “We will stay in touch,” Spock promised, and hung up.

Jim looked across at him, expression thoughtful. “You have plans of where you’re going today?”

“Surprisingly, I have not yet had time to map a route,” he said, raising an eyebrow. Jim laughed.

“I have,” Nyota said. “The network wants you two to stick together, believe it or not. I’ve got a shopping mall with flooding, a housing complex, and two schools that will be closed for a week.”

“Schools,” Spock said at the same time Jim did.

Jim shrugged. “If we can get them a little publicity, might help get them back in shape. Politicians don’t like seeing broken schools on the news.”

Spock had been thinking that the schools would provide the best illustration of the effects of weather that could be mitigated by advanced planning. The end result was the same, he thought, so they wound up at a nearby school.

When they arrived, they found a flat, red-brick building, built on a flat plain carved from a neighborhood rich in hills. The water must have poured in the night before; Spock could picture it flowing down the street, turning the sidewalks into small rivers, pooling against the green-painted front doors until it broke through. Water stood now in the parking lot, half-over the tires of the one unlucky car still parked there, and spread over most of the playground. Spock instructed Hannity, their camerawoman, to film that area first: small swings suspended over floodwaters would make a good backdrop for later voice overs.

Jim had already bounded up to the school’s front steps, through knee-deep water. Spock stood at the edge of the property, on an improbably green rise, and felt a wash of vertigo. A gray car sat sideways to the normal parking lines in the lot, water up to its hub caps.

“Hey, there’s not even any sandbags,” Jim said, turning. “You’d think this place would flood all the time.”

He peered into the windows and tugged at the door handles, something it would not have occurred to Spock to try. After all, they were there to film, not to explore. Yet as the door pulled open, and Jim cheered and folded himself through the small gap, he understood again that the two were interconnected for Jim. Journalism was both exploration and a mission for him, a calling, a chance to report a story but also to help people find happy endings. Spock saw journalism through the lens of his scientific studies: He was most comfortable as an observer and believed that he served the best purpose when providing a thorough, knowledgeable view of the facts. This did not include becoming part of the story. Jim did not see it that way, which was perhaps why it had taken them so many years of working in close proximity to develop a friendship.

This fundamental disagreement between their world views, their views of self and role and profession, however, did nothing to dim the admiration Spock felt for Jim. Jim had qualities that Spock could admit he envied. He was instantly, almost automatically comfortable in strange situations, displaying a casual confidence that Spock did not have at his own command. That afternoon, when they encountered the principal of the school and her young son, Jim befriended them almost effortlessly. Within an hour, the principal, Dr. Hortense, was telling Jim (and their camera) the story of how she had pleaded with her school board to provide better funding for flood protection. She walked him through the library, now stacked with soggy, ruined books and drowning electronics, and then embraced him as she wept over the ruin that lay there. Jim was kind, and gentle, and Spock knew that he genuinely cared about what the school — what the principal — was going to face in the coming days. He also knew that Jim would be able to distill what he had seen and felt here in a way that would connect immediately with their audiences, perhaps even spurring them to action.

After an hour in the school, they walked back to the parking lot, having captured enough film to fill two solid packages. Hannity headed right for the truck, but Spock walked more slowly, listening as Jim prepared to take his leave from Dr. Hortense. They had paused outside of her ruined office for a final conference.

“I do not know what we will do,” she said, speaking with an elegant Creole accent. “I have perhaps another day before the emergency generator goes out. It was in bad repair before, and now — it hangs by a thread. Once that happens, then we will lose all of the food in the kitchens, as well.”

Jim shook his head. “I know a guy who can maybe help with that,” he said, and stopped to write something down for her.

Spock walked on, eager to get out of the clammy interior. Outside, a partly cloudy sky screened the bright sunshine, and the trees around the school sparkled in the light. The air was clear though held the scents of the standing water around them, oily and faintly rotten already. Spock felt a tug on his sleeve and looked down. Andre, Dr. Hortense’s son, looked up at him. Andre had followed them for most of the building tour. For the first few rooms, he had been a quiet, serious presence for an eight-year-old. Spock had at first thought he was shy, but it had turned out that Andre was actually quite curious. Once he had learned that Spock was a scientist, he’d had questions at nearly every room. Jim had been engaged with Dr. Hortense, so it had fallen to Spock to answer them.

He did not mind. Andre’s questions were, after all, quite logical for one so young, and Spock had admired the way that his mind had turned to curiosity instead of fear as he’d seen his school in such a bad state.

“Will it rain again tonight?” Andre asked.

Spock shook his head. He had just seen an updated model from T’Pring on his phone. “No. You should have warm, clear weather for the next two days, though there will be some wind overnight.”

Andre nodded. “How do you know?”

“I use scientific models and current weather observation,” Spock said absently. He was wondering whether they would have time to visit another site, or whether they should return to the hotel to edit this video.

“What’s that mean?” Andre asked.

Spock blinked. He re-ran the conversation in his mind, then realized his error. He turned to face Andre, eventually deciding to sit on the guard rail that would normally funnel students into the two broad doors. “Weather is, in many ways, very predictable. We know what’s going to happen. For instance, summer will be hotter than winter.” Andre nodded. “We have other things that we know about the weather, too, such as what a cloud looks like if it’s likely to produce a tornado. And over time, we’ve written down most of the things we know and put them onto computers. Now, whenever a pattern shows up that’s like what we have seen before, we use what we already know to make predictions. Do you know what I mean by prediction?”

“Yeah,” he said, “like telling the future.”

“Exactly. Only our predictions are based on so much knowledge, so many times we have seen these patterns before, that we can make very accurate predictions about most weather.”

Andre looked around. “Then how come nobody realized that our school would flood like this?”

“Sadly,” Spock said, “I believe your mother did realize this, but others did not.”

“Why not?”

There were too many answers to that simple question, and many of them were tied up with the vast inequalities, many of them based in long-standing racism, that the families in Andre’s district faced. Spock was used to breaking down complicated issues for his audience, though, so he said, “Sometimes it is easier to pretend that a problem is never going to happen than it is to prepare for it. This is true for most natural disasters, actually. Most of us want to believe that we will never be harmed by a flood, or a tornado, or a hurricane or earthquake. Even though very reasonable people can point out that these things are likely, even though science can probably prove it, we are too used to only worrying about problems we can see. Weather is, often, invisible, until it is too bad to ignore.”

“People are dumb,” Andre said, with a sigh, and Spock could not help but agree.

“You ready?” Jim had stepped out only a moment before, and he now looked between them. “I’m gonna send Scotty out later with a few spare parts. You have any requests, Andre?”

He shrugged. “You got any root beer? It’s Mom’s favorite.”

Jim smiled. They said their goodbyes. On the way to the van, he said, “I’m gonna buy out the vending machines in root beer when we get back.”

“I will assist,” Spock said.

* * *

The film went together beautifully, as usual, and they shipped it to Stonn for final review before the evening broadcasts. Since the weather that evening was normal, the network only asked for a brief live segment from each of them that afternoon. Then, they and their crews were given the evening off, which Spock thought was richly deserved.

Nyota had volunteered to go with Scott on the supply run to Dr. Hortense’s school, and she had texted later to say they were going to stay out for a bit, getting background video and perhaps exploring the local places still running without problems. The rest of Jim’s crew were divided among those staying in, like Sulu, and those with designs on going out, like Dr. McCoy and, somehow, Chekov.

Spock had little interest in exploring the surrounding neighborhoods: driving into even mildly flooded streets seemed a poor use of the evening. However, he knew that Jim would probably prefer going out to staying in, and he wanted to be in Jim’s company. They spent so much time apart that this felt precious, being in the same non-New York city at the same time. So when McCoy recommended dinner and drinks, and Jim cast Spock a hopeful glance, Spock nodded and watched Jim’s smile widen (in proportion, he noted, to the growth of McCoy’s frown).

“This is good!” Chekov said. He had just walked into Jim’s room at the hotel, wearing jeans and a neon-green polo shirt and red-and-blue striped Chuck Taylors. Spock, standing in front of the bed, could not assimilate these style choices quickly enough, but Chekov didn’t seem to notice him staring. “We will have nice time. Dr. McCoy assures me I will enjoy the jambalaya.”

Spock glanced at McCoy. “Will there be vegetarian fare?”

“They probably have a salad or something,” McCoy said. He, too, had changed into casual wear for the evening, though for him this consisted of a T-shirt underneath an unseasonably warm leather jacket. “Hey, any chance you can get Jim to eat one of those on occasion?”

“The occasion of my dead body,” Jim said, rolling his eyes. He had just emerged from his bathroom. Spock definitely couldn’t assimilate Jim’s fashion without some expression: he looked delectable. His black T-shirt was practically painted to his skin, showing off his muscled abs and biceps; his artfully worn jeans looked like they’d been tailored, tightly conformed to every curve and stretch. His hair stood in spikes. Spock wanted to back him into the bedroom and work on messing up that hair all over again; instead, he looked away, staring intently at the abstract, flowery artwork above the bed, and folded his hands behind his back.

“I am so fucking glad you’re off the market,” McCoy said.

Jim laughed. “That’s not what you usually say.” He stepped in front of Spock. “Do you still need to change, or are you ready?”

Spock sighed. “I take it from your question that I am not.”

“No, I always think you look hot,” Jim said, “but your definition of casual and mine are a few light years off.”

That was true. Jim owned more jeans than dress shirts, gravitated toward brightly colored sneakers and witty T-shirts, and would gleefully admit to paying more for clothes that looked worn. Spock was currently wearing the least formal clothing he had brought along: a blue-black button-down shirt over crisply ironed gray slacks.

“Come here a second,” Jim said, beckoning him toward the bathroom.

“If this is gonna be a quickie, I’m gonna take the kid outside,” McCoy said.

Spock felt his face flush as Jim pushed him into the bathroom without rejecting McCoy’s hypothesis. As far as he knew, his relationship with Jim had never been officially confirmed to Chekov, and this seemed an embarrassing way to establish it. “Out in a minute,” Jim called, sing-song, and Spock sighed again.

“Take your shirt off,” Jim said.

Spock raised an eyebrow. “Though I do find some entertainment value in baiting Dr. McCoy, surely —“

“I’m not gonna jump you,” Jim said, “though I saw what you were thinking when I walked out a minute ago. Yeah, keeping blushing, that’s adorable. Shirt off, please.”

Spock complied, taking off both his shirt and, at Jim’s request, his undershirt. Then Jim handed him the shirt back and instructed him to put it on. A minute later, they were back in the hotel room, but Spock’s shirt was now open to the fourth button, his sleeves rolled in a way that would certainly cause some ironing difficulties, and Jim had made him remove his socks. “Not bad,” McCoy said, “though I’m still not gonna fuck either of y’all.”

“Would that I could get that in a legally binding document,” Spock said, and Jim snickered.

“Let’s go.”

The restaurant they went to was attached to an enormous and partly outdoor bar area. It had excellent reviews but appeared to have been reclaimed from a gas station or mini-mart, and the crowd was thin. Spock hoped this was because it was Tuesday and the day after a substantial storm and not a sign of what was to come. McCoy angled for a seat in the wide porch area, where they settled into a weather-worn booth with a scratched tabletop to read heavy plastic menus.

“Stop scowling down your nose,” McCoy said. He took a deep breath, as though savoring the air or the strong aroma of cooking oil. “God, I’m getting everything on this entire menu, and two of the hushpuppies.”

“I might join you,” Jim said, studying the “Surf” area of his menu closely. He nudged Spock’s arm. “I know it’s not ideal, but they have grilled cheese on the kid’s menu.”

“I eat fish from time to time,” Spock said, and Jim squeezed his arm as if in appreciation.

It turned out that what the restaurant lacked in ambience, it made up for in quality. A first round of appetizers — enthusiastically ordered by McCoy and Jim — arrived at the same time as their drinks, and Spock felt dubious about all of them. McCoy’s theatrical enjoyment of every bite did not help, but Chekov’s quiet surprise after trying a stuffed mushroom made Spock brave. His first bite surprised him, too; the second and third bites converted him fully. The fish bites were tender with a flaky-sharp fried cornmeal crust; the vegetables were firm, not soggy, and salted perfectly. A spicy dip burned pleasantly but also let the flavor of smoked pepper linger on his tongue. Everything was washed down with a pale, icy cold beer served in sweating glass bottles. “This is very good,” he said, after he had sampled everything.

“No shit,” McCoy said, but he looked equally pleased. They heaped praise on their server, who had recommended the selections, and then had their expectations exceeded by the entrees. At the end of the meal, Spock felt uncomfortably full and pleasantly satisfied.

“I definitely wore the wrong pants for this meal,” Jim said, leaning back in his seat.

“If you’d start wearing clothes that fit, you wouldn’t have this problem,” McCoy said.

“I believe your theory of what fits may be completely in error,” Spock said, resting one hidden hand on Jim’s thigh.

McCoy rolled his eyes. “Not in front of the children.”

“I, too, have eaten too much,” Chekov said, “but I find I cannot regret it.”

“It’s like we’re giving back to the community,” Jim said.

“Yeah, that second helping of oysters was basically charity work.”

Spock’s phone buzzed, and he read the new message while McCoy and Jim fought good-naturedly over the bill. “Do we have a destination in mind after dinner?” Spock asked.

Jim shrugged. “Thought we might just walk around a bit. I could use it. Why?”

“Nyota and Mr. Scott have completed their errands.”

Their server had arrived again to take the bill. Chekov blinked up at her, looking too young to even wonder, and said, “We are interested in finding an establishment with excellent drinks and music. Where might you recommend that is somewhat nearby?”

She gave detailed directions to a bar run by the same owner only a few blocks to the east, and Spock copied the name and address for Nyota. As they stood from the booth, Spock bumped briefly into Jim, who steadied him with one hand and then kept it on his back as they left, casually sliding his arm around Spock’s waist as they walked away from the restaurant. This was surprising, in a way. They were never demonstrative at work, and they had rarely been out together when they weren’t working. Beyond some flirting over snacks in the bar below their offices, in fact, they had shared only a handful of meals together outside of Spock’s apartment. Most of those had been quick grabs for lunch or breakfast en route to another errand, and Spock couldn’t think of a time when Jim had touched him so casually yet intimately in public. That was usually fine: Spock didn’t enjoy displays of affection at work.

Yet as they walked to the bar, Jim stayed close, and Spock had to admit he liked it. They were in a strange city, wandering the sidewalks in dusky twilight, among friends. When they stopped to wait for a crossing signal, Spock stood in Jim’s space, and Jim smiled up at him, then winked.

Nyota and Scott were just arriving when they found the bar, so they stood in a cluster at the corner while they parked. The wind had picked up, as expected, but the sky remained clear and cloudless, and Spock spared a thought for Andre and his mother. He would have to remember to check up on them — or at least to ask Jim about their progress.

Nyota gave him a quick, openly surprised look as she approached, her eyes flickering over him and then to Jim. Jim stood close, but not overtly so, engaged in a spirited debate with Chekov over the birthplace of bourbon. As Scott joined, they sauntered into the bar, and Nyota fell in beside Spock while Jim, McCoy, Scott, and Chekov walked ahead in a raucous clump. Chekov preened as he showed off his still-new legal ID, and then they were ushered into a wide, dimly lit room with a long bar, several shadowy corner booths, and an outdoor dance floor. Spock and Nyota agreed to stake out seats while the others went to the bar.

They found a booth at the edge of the dance floor, favored by the evening breeze but not exposed to the open sky. It was far enough from the speakers to make conversation possible, if not easy, and within the bartender’s line of sight until the floor filled up. Spock sat back and allowed himself to admire Jim as he leaned against the bar, still arguing with Chekov.

Nyota sat beside him. “You look — casual,” she said, briefly fingering his collar.

“Jim’s influence,” he said.

“No kidding.” She grinned. “You guys are, oh, I hate to say this, but it’s cute. The two of you.” She shook her head. “I might have to start liking him at this rate.”

Spock watched Jim walking toward them, balancing three drinks and smiling at something Chekov was telling him. As he approached, he looked up, and his smile for Spock was a little brighter, a little more intimate. “Here we go,” he said, sliding a tall thin glass of pinkish slush toward Spock, and then a deep brown pint toward Nyota. “I put it on my tab in an incredibly ill-conceived attempt to buy your love, Uhura.”

She sipped the dark beer. “Keep trying,” she said. “Literally, I mean that. I’m gonna need another one of these in a bit.”

“Aye aye.” Jim settled next to Spock, close but not remarkably so, his knee resting against Spock’s thigh under the table. “So who’s gonna dance with me tonight? Bones, I know you’re good for a waltz.”

“Always, darlin’.” McCoy tipped back his glass. “Unless I get a better offer.”

“Harsh.”

“Not as if you won’t get better offers,” McCoy said, gesturing back at the bar.

It was true. Already, Spock could see two women glancing their way, grinning to one another, and one wiggled her fingers in a small wave. Jim waved back while McCoy guffawed. Spock kept himself very still, feeling his heart race.

“Oh my god, did you already find groupies?” Nyota asked.

“Aye, he can find them anywhere,” Scott said, tone half-admiring, as he settled at the edge of the table with two drinks. “I sent him in to pay for gas one time last summer, and he came back with two phone numbers, in the middle of an evacuation order.”

“That was one time!” Jim said, laughing.

“And every time since then, I’ve paid for the gas myself, and had no such luck,” Scott said, shaking his head. “I expect these ladies, like the others, were just intimidated by my vast intellect.”

“Or they didn’t want to compete with your van for attention.”

“She is a lovely machine,” Scott said. “Though I don’t find your friends unattractive, either, Jim.”

“Look, they’re nice ladies. Locals. I’m a tourist tonight, basically an anthropologist,” Jim said. “It’s important to observe local culture and custom when traveling on foreign land, wouldn’t you say, fellow scientists?”

McCoy offered a cheers, and Nyota and Chekov raised their glasses, so Spock felt he had to follow suit. Chekov sat back and began to wonder aloud at his own chances of finding a dance partner, and the teasing turned in his direction. Spock tried to let the conversation about Jim’s attraction to and of others go, but it lingered. For all the intimacies they had shared, for all the attraction and admiration Spock felt toward Jim, they had never renegotiated their original deal. They had made no pledges of fidelity or even exclusivity. If Jim wanted to move from observing to sampling local culture, in all its various and scantily clad forms, Spock had no right to be upset. Yet he was upset, illogical as it was. He was unhappy at the thought of Jim entertaining others and unhappy with himself for not realizing that he had begun to think of their relationship in a way that Jim had not agreed to.

When Nyota and McCoy stood to get the second round, Spock excused himself from the table and went to the bathroom. After using the facilities, he paused to wash and dry his face, feeling as though the grease of that night’s dinner was already oozing up through his skin. When he returned, the table was empty.

Spock looked around, confused, and then quickly located everyone else on the dance floor. Scott and Nyota were executing a grinning and technically proficient two-step. Chekov and one of the women from the bar earlier were at the edge of the floor, her hand over his in an instructive way, as they tried to mimic their movements. And Jim — well, Jim wasn’t dancing well, but he was dancing close to the other woman from the bar. Spock turned away. He found the drink Nyota had brought him — a glass of white wine — and drank it swiftly, too swiftly, and then saw another drink appear on the table.

“Thought you might need this,” McCoy said, drawl heavy, “if you weren’t gonna dance.”

Spock nodded, both at the drink and at the nuance of McCoy’s observation. No, Spock had no intention of joining Jim or anyone else on the dance floor. “I do not begrudge anyone else their enjoyment of the music,” he said.

“Mmhm. Keep on practicing. You might have that sounding convincing by the time they’re all done.” McCoy leaned on his elbows on the table. A short glass of amber liquid rested between his arms. Spock stared out into the night, his eyes caught again and again by the flash of the dance floor lighting on Jim’s hair. “He likes to push boundaries,” McCoy said, and Spock looked back at their table, feeling caught for staring.

“I hadn’t noticed,” he said. The drink McCoy had brought him was also amber, but it had muddled fruit at the bottom, and when Spock took a sip, syrupy cherry almost overcame the harsh bite of whiskey. Behind them, the song changed, and a ripple of laughter flowed through the brief silence.

McCoy sipped his drink slowly, showing no effects from its strength. The music pulsed in electronic waves; the new song was one Spock felt he should recognize but did not. “If you haven’t set any boundaries, of course, then he’s really gonna test and see where they are.” Across the table, McCoy seemed to be settled back comfortably in the booth, like an old man holding court on his front porch. It struck Spock that he looked more at home here than any of them, and he wondered, briefly, how far from McCoy’s original home turf they were. “You see, Jim’s an explorer at heart.”

“This metaphor is tiresome.”

“Not a metaphor,” McCoy said, shrugging. “Just a simple country doctor telling you that all the models you think you’ve got that predict what’s gonna happen next are worthless when you’re dealing with Jim Kirk.” He lifted his glass as though saluting Spock. “You may not believe it, but I’m on your side here.”

Spock did not, actually, believe it, and said so. McCoy shook his head. “Anything that’s a stabilizing influence on Jim is something I’m in favor of, and you’re about as stable as as a two-ton rock. Course that does make me wonder what exactly he sees in you —“

“Perhaps he is a fan of geology,” Spock said, and McCoy grinned.

“Now who’s getting metaphorical?”

Scott appeared at the table a moment later to refill his drink and, then, to sink into the booth next to them and carry on a text conversation that he loudly narrated. It suited Spock well not to have to speak directly to McCoy anymore, though he had to admit, he’d found their conversation a bit buoying. He felt even better about it when, after the next song ended, Jim met him at the bar.

His face was red, and his neck slick with sweat, much as Nyota was flushed from the heat of dancing. “Where did you go?” he said, leaning next to Spock. “I’ve been waiting for you to rescue me forever.”

Spock raised an eyebrow but kept his gaze straight ahead, as though studying the taps. “I did not know you were in need of rescue.”

Jim grinned, a big, loose, happy smile, the kind that had a few drinks behind it. “Oh, you’re jealous,” he said. “Really?”

Spock frowned. “Jealousy would be illogical.”

“Mmhm. Thought you lacked the time to lie,” Jim said.

The bartender slid over a new drink and asked Spock how he wanted to pay. “Put it on mine,” Jim said, “and let me go ahead and close out, actually.”

As the bartender turned away, Spock looked at Jim. Sweaty, grinning, challenging Jim. He took a gulp from his too-strong drink and then stepped closer, into Jim’s personal space, and Jim just smiled more widely. One of Jim’s hands, warm, a bit damp, slid on to Spock’s hip, his fingers slipping beneath the overhang of his tucked-in shirt. “You have nothing to worry about from those ladies,” he said, voice quiet.

Cupped in close to Jim like this, Spock felt too warm and just right. “Dr. McCoy says you like to test boundaries.”

“He’s not wrong.” Jim pulled away to sign his bill. He left an exorbitant tip before pocketing his credit card. On the way back to the table, he waved to the woman he had been dancing with, then tucked his free hand against the small of Spock’s back, a balm. “Hey, I think we’re gonna catch a cab,” Jim said when they reached the table, and Spock nodded along even though he hadn’t been asked about that plan. He felt a brief and confusing flush of embarrassment, as though Jim had just announced, “Hey, we’re ditching you all to go fuck at the hotel,” which was likely true and probably would not be surprising to anyone.

McCoy gave them a long look. “All right,” he said. “Have a good night.”

“Thank you, doctor,” Spock said. He set his drink — surprisingly empty — down on the table and said his goodbyes to Nyota, as well. As they left the bar, Jim walked so close that their elbows jostled for the same space and their fingers brushed. The same tantalizing partial touches continued until they reached the hotel, at which point Spock dragged Jim back to Jim’s room. Jim laughed against Spock’s mouth, the door barely closed. “I keep trying to find your limits. Am I getting close?”

Spock slid his hands down the broad expanse of Jim’s back, and Jim’s hands slid into Spock’s back pockets. “I do not know,” Spock admitted. “But I am willing to engage in further exploration.”


	8. Chapter 8

Spock woke the next morning with a faint headache and the knowledge that he had, somehow, completely fallen in love with Jim Kirk. He briefly considered telling Jim this — admitting that their original agreement was no longer adequate, that Spock desired more — and then dismissed it. He required more time to assimilate his own feelings before trying to discuss them with Jim.

They spent the morning in a conference room on the first floor, planning, with the rest of Jim’s team. At first, it was strange, almost awkward, to be among the others. Spock felt they’d seen enough, perhaps too much, intimacy implied between the two of them the night before. In the daylight, back in work mode, Spock felt vaguely embarrassed by it all. They still had to work together, after all. So he made an effort — one he could also see Jim making — to be sure that they weren’t so tied up in each other that they ignored the presence of the others.

Around them, the team — mostly Jim’s team — looked tired but also alert. They wore casual clothes, crumpled from too many days in hotels and suitcases, and had all lined up for coffee before sitting down. At least the storms had passed, and the local weather crews were doing an admirable job of covering the clean up efforts.

“They know the territory,” Jim said, lounging in a chair across the table from Spock, idly flipping through something on his phone. He wore a bright blue T-shirt that declared “Forecast: 7 Days of Awesome,” which Spock had watched him scoop from his suitcase only perhaps an hour before. At the time, he had been naked save for shorts; now, even dressed, the casual intimacy of their morning lingered in Spock’s mind. “The only reason for us to be out there instead of them is ego, at this point.” Spock raised an eyebrow and waited. Jim looked up, then laughed. “That’s you saying you totally agree, and also, you’re still surprised I’m not out there right now, huh?”

“If he won’t say it, I will," Nyota said, but her tone belied the joke. She had taken a seat at the head of the table, dividing her attention between a laptop and a tablet.

“Well I, for one, wouldn’t mind a day out of the weather," McCoy said. “Just one, single day, enjoying the modern conveniences of a roof over our heads all day long, and maybe a hot shower, predictable electricity…”

Sulu, seated at the opposite end of the table from Nyota, grinned. “You ever considered that you’re in the wrong line of work, Doc?”

“Only every damn day.” McCoy held a paper cup of coffee between two hands. “Sometimes two or three times, when Jim’s driving the bus.”

Chekov entered then, carrying the printouts Spock had requested. “Hey, where is my bus, anyway?” Jim asked, setting down his phone.

“Mr. Scott said he was taking it for a stretch of its legs,” Chekov said. Sulu, Jim, and McCoy groaned in unison. “This is — not so good?” He handed Spock the printouts and took a seat by Sulu.

“He’d never hurt the van,” Chapel said from her seat by Nyota.

“But he’s not that attached to the rest of the road around it,” Jim said. “Did he say where he —“

Even as he spoke, the door opened behind them, and Montgomery Scott wobbled in, arms laden with paper sacks. “I keep havin’ the same conversation about these drive thru height limits. If people would just consider —“

Spock tuned the rest of his rant out, as it seemed neither important nor entirely connected to reality. The bags were from McDonald’s and, from the smell of them, promised a much less healthy breakfast than the one Spock had built from the fruit bowl in the lobby. Still, he watched Jim’s eyes light up and even McCoy lose his grouchy expression for a moment and decided, perhaps, whatever was in the bags was worth his attention.

A few minutes later, they all had food before them. Spock had hung back as the others had divided up the goods, only to have a meatless egg-white English muffin sandwich (Nyota) and an egg-and-cheese biscuit (Jim) placed in front of him. Everyone else seemed to be delighted by what they’d found, too, enough that Spock mentally made a note to invite them all to brunch sometime in the future. As they dived into the food, Jim listened patiently to Scott’s rundown of possibilities for where to take the van next.

“— So we should head thataway as soon as we can, assuming that low-pressure system holds.”

“It won’t,” Spock said, and watched Scott’s eyes widen. However, Spock had spent his breakfast silently studying the most recent European model data and NWS maps, not ranting about the inefficiency of drive-thru architecture. “By tomorrow night, the dry line will move back to its normal place.”

Jim raised an eyebrow. “No bets on a bulge?”

Spock thought about this for a moment, then pulled over a second printed climate map. “I do not think so,” he said, “though eastern Missouri is hard to predict at this point in the season.”

“Which is why St. Louis makes some sense," Scott said.

“Nah, I think Spock’s right.” Jim gestured to the map Spock had, and Spock turned it around for his viewing. “I mean, look at this, all north and south, pressure’s already going back to normal. Three days out there’s only a thirty percent chance right now.” He looked up, right at Spock, and then leaned back and looked around the table. “If you were going for a good old fashioned televisable thunderstorm right now, where would you head?”

Spock closed his eyes for a moment, considering. “In the continental United States?”

“I’d consider Alaska, but Hawaii’s a rough drive.”

Sulu and Chekov said, simultaneously, “Florida.”

Nyota added, “Central Florida. There’s nothing on the coasts right now, but August near Orlando, maybe down to Lakeland — chances are you’ll see something.”

Chapel shrugged. “I don’t mind Orlando.”

“Seems like a nice day to be in San Diego,” McCoy said, and Chapel threw a sugar packet at him.

“You know it’s too cold there for bikini weather, right?” she asked.

“Darlin’, I just know it’s too mild for anything approaching storm status, and that’s all I care about.”

Jim shook his head, then focused on Spock.

“New Mexico,” he said.

Jim nodded, as though expecting this answer. “Not Florida?”

Spock took a moment to fold up the paper from his egg biscuit and to take a sip of his weak coffee. “Statistically, Florida would provide a higher chance of viewing a significant thunderstorm,” Spock conceded. “However, the best television relies upon some element of either unpredictability or variation. We have a team in Florida already, waiting for the remnants of this system to strike. We rarely broadcast from New Mexico, and the panorama would be quite different.”

“And stunning,” Jim said, “if I remember it correctly. I camped near Cimarron a few days over one summer.”

“How recently?”

“About five years ago.”

Spock nodded. “I stayed at The Lightning Fields in August, two years ago, and then spent a few nights near Tucson.”

Jim’s eyes were wide, and Spock sensed he had the full attention of the whole table, now, too. Chekov said, “You really, truly stayed at the installation? Did you witness a storm?”

“Indeed.” It had been one of the best experiences of Spock’s life, and certainly his favorite display of art. The Lightning Fields was an art installation done in the 1970s and restored in the last ten years, a collection of glass-encased lightning rods spread over a field, in the middle of one of the most thunderstorm prone counties in the United States.

“Did you get pictures?” Sulu asked.

Spock shook his head. His gaze was locked with Jim’s. “They don’t allow photography,” Jim said.

“You have also stayed there?” Spock asked. It felt important to know this, as though he might be discovering some new way in which their pasts had converged.

Jim shrugged. “Not exactly. They were closed for renovation when I went by, but I camped.”

“They do not allow camping.”

“True,” Jim said, “but they also don’t have the manpower to make sure that’s not happening, so…”

Spock raised an eyebrow. Chekov said, “You trespassed onto The Lightning Fields?”

“Technically, I got lost while doing a bit of back-road exploring and happened to park in a place that was advantageous for viewing,” he said, talking around a broad, smug grin. When he leaned back, the small amount of distance seemed to dispel a bit of the intensity of the moment. Spock felt like he could breathe again, and like he might be able to look away from Jim pretty soon, too.

“Then you know why I recommend New Mexico,” Spock said.

“Completely.” Unspoken but implied, through a gentle nudge against his leg and a raised eyebrow across the table, was Jim’s wish to visit New Mexico with Spock. That was a lovely picture, actually: Spock decided he would enjoy spending time with Jim in the Southwest during storm season quite a bit.

“Ahem,” Nyota said, and Spock looked down at his folded breakfast paper. He knew he was blushing and wondered if Jim might be, too, though he didn’t dare look up to see. “Not to interrupt the honeymoon planning or anything, but we do actually have to figure out a place to go. Or, well, some of us do. Spock, I’m guessing you and I are headed back to New York no matter what.”

Nyota wasn’t a safe place to look, either, so Spock instead focused on the crumbled pile of paper napkins in front of Scott. “Actually, I am uncertain about that. I was told to call Karen Komack this afternoon to discuss possible destinations and recent ratings.”

“Oh, shit,” Sulu said, and Spock heard McCoy mutter something similar.

“No, guys, that’s actually the conversation,” Jim said, voice soothing. “Spock doesn’t actually get in trouble like we do.”

Sulu, when Spock glanced over, looked wary. “You’re not — in trouble?”

“No,” Spock said, genuinely surprised.

“It’s just — she never calls us unless she wants to complain about Jim.”

“Ah,” Spock said, still not looking over at Jim. “I am not a particularly receptive audience for that call.”

Sulu laughed, then clapped a hand over his mouth like he hadn’t meant to, and Chekov let out a high pitched giggle. “Are we — Jim, you gotta help us out here,” Sulu said. “Are we still not supposed to really know, or are you done with that?”

Finally, Spock looked at Jim, who looked amused in equal measure to Spock’s own embarrassment. “Oh, you know, and I know you know, and so does Spock, and it’s fine,” Jim said, and Sulu seemed to sink down to rest his head on the table.

“Thank fuck,” he said. “The tension is like almost a physical thing, you know that, right?”

“Yup,” Jim said, popping the last consonant. Spock knew his face was heating up again. “Pretty aware.”

“I can’t believe I’m about to say this, but let’s talk about the damn weather, please. Anything,” McCoy said, and Chapel clapped a few times, slow and lazy. “Are we headed to St. Louis or not?”

Jim shrugged and studied the map again. Spock reviewed it upside down, then traced a path with his finger. “You’re right,” Jim said. “Past St. Louis but not quite Chicago. Should be something for us there.”

“And us?”

Spock shrugged as an answer to Nyota’s question. “We’ll see what HQ has to say.”

* * *

His afternoon call was predictable in that Karen congratulated him on his coverage, disparaged Jim’s role, and then asked when he could be back in the studio. “I suppose tomorrow," he answered, surprised at his own desire not to leave.

“That’s fine. When you get back, we should talk.”

“Of course.” Spock hung up with a mild feeling of dread: he had been enjoying this adventure with Jim, and he would be sorry to give it up. In addition, he wasn’t sure what Karen wanted, and the not knowing made him wary. He walked out of the conference room, where he had taken the call, and headed outside to where Jim had disappeared to review travel plans with Scott. They had parked their hurricane-ready van in the back corner of the parking lot, where the blue-and-steel graphic for Jim’s show, _Enterprise Weather_ , could be best displayed to passing traffic. As he approached, Spock could see Scott standing at the front of the truck, holding his phone up next to a protruding metal appliance. “Tuning the radio waves,” he said, when Spock stopped next to him.

“I see,” Spock said, wondering how that was possible but not wanting to ask. “Have you seen Jim?”

“Aye, he’s inside,” Scott said, nodding toward the back of the van.

Spock walked around the vehicle, taking a moment to observe it. He’d seen reports from the van — which Jim’s crew all called The Enterprise — and he’d seen reports filmed in front of it, but he’d never been near it himself. It was more like an RV than a van, really: long, tall, and wide, with a tinted window in the middle of one side and a cab in the front. Satellite equipment usually crowded its top, but it was currently invisible, thanks to an innovative cap devised by Scott which cut down on wind resistance when broadcasts weren’t needed. The side door was up three metal stairs, and the network’s logo curled in silver paint over it. Spock entered without knocking and found himself in a small living-room type area and what was likely a kitchen on a normal model. Here, the refrigerator had remained, but instead of an oven, two large computers hummed, powering four screens bolted to the walls above them. Climate and topographical maps cluttered the tiny dining table and half of its U-shaped bench, and two television monitors displayed muted FWN broadcasts on either side of the door leading to the front driving compartment. Spock followed a thump toward the back of the vehicle, where a narrow hallway passed a bathroom (where someone had taped a stick-figure cartoon joke about tornado speeds) and, past that, an open door into what was probably meant to be a bedroom.

Instead, it looked like it had become half storage, half work space, much like Jim’s conference room in New York. Also like that room, this was where Spock found Jim, lying back on what looked like an uncomfortable small couch, wearing giant noise-canceling headphones and holding a tablet above his face. Spock knocked loudly on the thin door, and Jim looked up.

“Hey,” he said, grinning. “One sec.” He turned back to the tablet. “Chris, I gotta go, but don’t think I didn’t enjoy this little fatherly chat.” Jim paused, clearly listening to his video caller — which Spock now supposed was Christopher Pike. “I don’t think he’d enjoy being called that, no. It’s actually someone you know,” he said, and smiled over at Spock again, raising an eyebrow, and Spock stayed stiffly in place. Jim pulled the headphones free, then unplugged them from the tablet, and Spock could suddenly hear Pike’s voice filling the small room.

“— your crew, Jim, I hired them.”

“You did not," he said, sitting up.

“Technically, I did, unless you thought all of that paperwork was just for fun.”

“Technically, I think Komack hired them," Jim said, sitting up in a swift motion that had probably made Pike a bit seasick, “and it’s no one on my crew. Say hello, Spock.” He gestured toward the couch, clearly expecting Spock to sit next to him. Spock did not move.

“Hello, Christopher,” he said.

“Spock? What the — I didn’t know you were out there,” Pike said. “Jim, put the camera on him, I want to be sure he’s real.” Spock rolled his eyes, then wondered if Jim had captured that. “Holy shit, Spock, I’d started to think maybe I’d hallucinated you.”

“I take it you still do not watch FWN, then.”

He laughed. “I’ll start, I swear, as soon as you start answering your damn email. Jim — that goes double for you. Don’t make me come over there, boys, all right?”

“Yes, sir,” Jim said, and Spock nodded, unsure of whether he was still on camera. The strange water-dropping sound of the call being ended followed, and then Jim set the tablet on the couch. “Hey, again,” he said. “Sorry, I was just finishing up my pep talk of the week.”

Spock raised an eyebrow. “You required encouragement?”

“Not really, today,” Jim said. “He just likes to check in. Wait, are you actually dodging his email? You said you worked for him, I didn’t think about that it might not have ended well.”

“My employment ended on good terms," Spock said. “He has not emailed me with any regularity, though I do receive an occasional message.” Usually, the notes were a single sentence, reminding Spock that if he ever changed his mind, the door at FBN was still open.

Jim, though, seemed to have another relationship with Pike entirely. “Ever since I told him no, he’s been checking up on me. I don’t know what he thinks is so wrong, but he’s got this worried Dad face that I can’t quite say no to.” He shrugged. “Maybe if he thinks I’m associating with you, he’ll lay off.”

“I would hope he wouldn’t think my presence anything but neutral, in terms of my effectiveness at reducing your risk-taking behavior.”

“I’m sure he has more faith in you than that.” Jim grinned up at him, spreading both arms over the back of the sofa. “I promise not to turn the camera back on, though. To what do I owe this visit?”

Spock realized he had no particular purpose in being there: he had simply wanted to see Jim after his call with Karen. Here he was, in the middle of the work day, just — standing here. He hoped his face didn’t show his confusion. “I have never seen your van before,” he said, perhaps too quickly, “and I thought perhaps I should acquire an introduction before you head out.”

“Well, I’ll give you the five-cent tour here in a few.” Jim leaned forward, his elbows on his knees, and studied Spock for just a second. “I take it you talked with Karen.”

Spock nodded. “She would like us back tomorrow.”

“Bullshit,” Jim said. “I bet she’d like you back right now, but you said tomorrow, didn’t you?” Spock did not answer, nor did he meet Jim’s eyes. “You old romantic. We’re leaving in the morning, too.”

“Oh?” Spock glanced around. “Do you have plans, then, this evening?”

“A few,” Jim said, grinning, “and you’re gonna love them all.”

* * *

Much later, in the dark of Jim’s room once again, Spock’s heart still racing as his body began to cool, he said, quietly, “I would like our relationship to be exclusive,” and he felt Jim’s grin against the back of his neck.

“Sounds good to me,” Jim whispered, and he drew him closer.

* * *

They parted the next morning just after sunrise. Jim was never at his best in the early morning, but he woke when Spock rose from his bed, and woke again to demand a parting kiss after Spock had re-dressed in the last day’s clothes. “See you soon," he’d murmured, and Spock had nodded, not completely trusting himself to say anything. Instead, he’d snuck into the hall and back to his own room, and tried to convince himself that closing the door there made official the end of this adventure.

When Spock returned home, it was to business as usual. The talk Karen had requested was simply to urge him toward finally connecting with the _New York Times_ journalist. So Spock found ten minutes in his first day back to call the PR department, which was only too happy to connect him to the writer’s direct line. The writer immediately asked when they could schedule an interview and about his preference for a venue. “If this is to focus on my work, then —“

“Absolutely, yes, it would be great to see your work space and the studio. I’d love to see you in action, and actually, Lori mentioned that it would be OK if I observed for a day or two next week around set. Though I’d of course like to get your thoughts on best days and times for that, and make sure I’m not going to be in your way.”

The rest of the conversation went about the same way: Spock felt railroaded, both by the reporter’s enthusiasm and by the tacit pressure from their own PR office. He was not a typical network star; he did not relish the spotlight, even if he was in it a few times a day. Spock wanted his work to be known. He wanted his work to be good. He did not, however, crave fame.

“See, I don’t get that,” Nyota said, when Spock tried to explain his distaste. They were at the bar on the ground floor, late on a Tuesday night. Spock had the night off from being on air, but Jim was still out of town, and he’d felt at loose ends. Nyota had suggested a late dinner, and he had accepted. Now, Spock poured them each a glass of wine from the bottle he’d just purchased. “You’re actually on TV. That’s twenty times as famous as most people ever get, and it’s not like you didn’t work to get here, anyway.”

“That is fair,” Spock said. He sniffed his glass, swirled the wine, then took a small sip. It needed a bit more air, he decided. “But I have other reasons for wanting to avoid undue personal attention.”

Nyota came to the same conclusion with her own wine, he saw, and then turned her attention back to him. “You mean… Jim?”

Spock’s right hand rested just next to his cell phone, which had lit up twice since they’d sat down with messages from Jim. Jim and his team were in Chicago after all, having chased a developing ridge of high pressure. It had been only three days since they’d parted in Louisiana, but Spock was still awash in uncertainty. He had enjoyed their time there, and he couldn’t believe how ready he had been to throw aside work to spend time with Jim. In fact, he found it unsettling, and even now, his face began to warm when he considered just how they had spent most of their last day in Baton Rouge. His tour of the Enterprise van had been thorough.

“While I certainly would like to avoid publishing any intimate details of our relationship in The New York Times, that is not quite what I was referring to.” He took a slow breath, nose in his broad red wine glass. The scent was comforting and rich. “I have always found the personal revelation aspects of interviews less than enjoyable.”

The tinkling piano music playing in the bar felt too light, too cliché. Nyota did not seem to notice, nodding sympathetically. “Your parents,” she said, looking over her glass at Spock.

“Naturally.” Spock’s mother had died when he was 19, shortly after he had left for college. She’d been translating for and assisting with transport of migrant farmers when their car was swept away in a flash flood. Any meaningful profile would contain this story, and they would be partially right in assuming that it had motivated Spock’s interest in meteorology. Of course, they would likely also miss his other influences, such as a desire to reject the pre-planned path through elite private schools into public service and perhaps public office that his father had charted for him before birth. “In addition, I feel only an in-depth biography could capture, accurately or adequately, the details that surround my professional and personal choices, and I am under no illusion that I am interesting enough to sustain an entire biographical volume.”

Nyota smiled, a slow, warm smile, and took a small sip from her glass. “Don’t sell yourself short,” she said. “I bet there are more of us than you think who’d be happy to read a book on you.” Her eyes tracked to his phone. “Speaking of your fan club, where is he by now?”

“Chicago.”

She nodded. “He seems pretty into you.”

“I believe that is true,” Spock said.

Nyota stared past him, probably at a screen showing a current weather broadcast. “Have you ever found out the whole story with Carol Marcus?”

“No,” Spock admitted. “He says it is not his story to tell.”

“Hmm,” she said, and then shook her head. “Well. Just be a little careful, all right?”

“Of course."


	9. Chapter 9

Nyota’s confidence notwithstanding, the profile interview and eventual publication went about as Spock had predicted. One September morning, Spock opened the Sunday _New York Times_ to find his own profile on the lower cover of the entertainment section, not exactly where he ever hoped to be. The writer covered surface details exhaustively, including painting a Pantone-accurate picture of his tie on the day of their lunch, but touched little on anything deeper than that. It was exactly the type of piece that someone who had spent an hour in his company and a day at his workplace would be able to write, Spock thought, with enough literary flare and allusion to make it worthy of the _Times_ instead of _US Weekly_.

Nyota and T’Pring found the piece hilarious. The photograph that accompanied the story had been taken two days after the interview, when Spock had been particularly hassled by deadlines for his own weekly shows in addition to breaking weather news. His annoyance had shown through, and his photo emphasized his drawn brow, slightly squinted eyes, and crossed arms. Spock thought it overly dramatic, too serious, and unflattering. Nyota and T’Pring both declared that it reflected an accurate picture from their perspective. “That’s basically your resting bitch face," Nyota said, and T’Pring snorted.

Jim was more succinct in his assessment. _You look ready to fight tornadoes bare-handed. I’m gonna frame it and stick it in my locker, swear to god._

The PR people were happy, therefore Spock decided he, too, was happy — at least until his father called, late on the Wednesday night after its Sunday publication, a Wednesday evening that Spock had off from work. He had been sitting on his couch, idly texting Jim, watching the evening FWN broadcast, and looking at scripts for upcoming shows. When Sarek asked if he had been in the middle of anything important, Spock said, “I believe I have a moment if you wish to speak.”

“I read the New York Times article about you today.”

Spock waited. There would be a reaction after this, he knew. His father did not declare actions simply to do so; he always had a point, always had an argument he was leading up to, some logical chain of observations that would inevitably make Spock’s blood boil. One of the things the interviewer had managed to miss, after all, was that Spock and his somewhat famous father weren’t technically estranged, but they did not speak regularly or easily. They had not been comfortable around one another since his mother’s death.

“The interviewer is known to me.”

“Ah," Spock said, “of course.” So there wasn’t actually some new media interest in his personal and professional life: Sarek had arranged for this. Spock sighed. He actually hadn’t been prepared to have this particular version of the "please do not meddle in my affairs" talk again this evening.

“You misunderstand.” Sarek’s voice was as calm and even as always, and Spock remembered to keep his the same, even if he felt like grinding his teeth. “I did not suggest the interview. In fact, I was surprised to see the publication.”

“Then — I do not understand the purpose of your call.”

“The purpose was to ascertain the wellbeing of my son,” Sarek said, and now Spock detected the faintest hint of dry humor in his tone. “The profile left me with no current knowledge, save some tidbits about your admirably correct sartorial choices, so I decided to find out for myself. Secondary to that, I wondered whether you had heard from your brother, at all, recently.”

“My brother?” Spock was completely caught off guard by the question, as he was also completely out of the habit of regularly thinking of his brother. Sybok was, actually, Spock’s half brother, Sarek’s oldest child by roughly a decade. He had taken the upper-class education that Sarek had wanted for Spock, accepted every connection and networking possibility, and then dropped out of school and out of their lives in order to start several ill-fated businesses in the late 1990s. Though they stayed in touch through email and messaging, Spock had not seen much of Sybok since Spock’s own high school graduation, when he had stopped by just long enough to get into a one-sided shouting match with Sarek over some dispute involving money. “I have not spoken with him in weeks,” Spock admitted. “He called on Mother’s birthday, as usual.”

“I see.” Sarek’s pauses were always so fraught. “Are you still living in Manhattan?”

“Yes,” Spock said. “My address has not changed. Is there something you wish to send?”

“No. I had actually wondered whether it might be possible to meet. I will be in the city several times this summer, and I — I find I desire to spend time with you in person, Spock, if you would be amenable.”

This was unprecedented. Spock wondered if his own pause felt, to his father, as thick and potentially hostile as Sarek’s always did. “I would find that agreeable,” Spock said, slowly, not completely sure this was true. “With some advanced notice, I should be able to make any weeknight evening work, unless I am needed to report live.”

“I understand,” his father said. “Would next Tuesday evening at 7 p.m. be acceptable?”

Spock frowned. “I have a previous engagement,” he said, but then, quickly, because his father had never actually reached out like this, “but I should be able to move it.”

“I would appreciate that.”

They signed off with nothing more settled between them, and Spock felt anxious and curious about the entire conversation. His father had so rarely shown any interest in Spock as an adult that he hardly knew how to interact with him anymore, and frankly, he wasn’t certain that reopening these lines of communication would be for the best. But Sarek was his father, had once been the man his mother had loved more than any other, and Spock wanted to maintain some relationship there to honor her, at least. In addition, he was curious to hear what had brought Sybok to mind; as far as Spock knew, they had not spoken since 1998, when Sarek had quietly but firmly told Sybok to leave his house and consider himself unwelcome on the family’s properties.

_So we’re thinking peanut butter might be the answer._

Spock blinked as his phone chimed, and it took him a moment to remember the context for Jim’s message. _My apologies; I was on the phone with my father._

_Oh ho ho. How is Ambassador Sarek tonight?_

_In rare form,_ Spock wrote back. _He has invited me to dinner next week. May I delay our meeting on Tuesday?_

_Delay or postpone?_

_Is there a vast difference of which I am unaware?_

_Delay means we’re getting together after you and dad finish dinner. Postpone means we reschedule to… Wednesday?_

Spock paused. If past experience ran true, he would likely be in no mood for company after dining with his father, but the prospect of returning to an empty apartment after the meal was also unwelcome. Besides, it would by then have been 11 days since he last saw Jim in person. _Delay_ , he wrote back. _I will leave you a key at the office, and as you already know the building code, you may feel free to come over at any point. I do not expect I will be any later than 10 p.m._

_Sounds good._

It only occurred to him later that it might have been unclear what was implied by giving Jim a key to his apartment; then, after brief consideration, he decided it likely didn’t matter. He didn’t mind giving Jim access to his home. It would make their after-work meet-ups more convenient, after all, if they weren’t constantly trying to come up with a good reason to leave work together. Besides, he doubted Jim would even keep or use the key, anyway, and if he did — well, that would prompt a discussion that was probably increasingly necessary about the terms and conditions of their association.

Apparently, it was shaping up to be quite the week for relationship changes in Spock’s life.


	10. Chapter 10

The start of the next week brought rain where it was needed most, which unfortunately meant flash floods and hazardous conditions. Dry ground hit by heavy rain became as slick as ice, at times, leading to at least one death in Arizona; small stream flooding overwhelmed county bridges, and two others died in flash flooding. Spock reported the stories dutifully and compassionately, accepted Stonn’s sympathetic shoulder clasp and a cup of tea from T’Pring, and focused on his work to the exclusion of nearly all other emotions. Jim sent him knock-knock jokes by text and acted the complete professional on air. Riding on the elevator at the end of the day, Spock pocketed his phone and found Nyota watching him in the mirrored glass. “It’s not casual for you anymore, is it?”

He met her eyes in the reflection. “No, it is not,” he said.

The doors opened onto the lobby, and they walked out together. He would drop her at home that evening before taking his FWN-sent car back to his own apartment. When they had dated, she had sometimes accompanied him home or invited him up to hers, and they had fixed dinner together, discussed their days over food and shared dish washing, prepared for bed, and often made love. It had not been enough for either of them, the fires of initial attraction eventually fading to embers of warm friendship, but the pantomime of an adult relationship had been comforting. Now, in the car, she squeezed his hand and he nodded to acknowledge the comfort.

“He makes you laugh,” Nyota said, staring straight ahead. Spock looked at her in profile, the high curve of her cheekbone, the long stretch of her neck. She was intelligent and beautiful and strong and deserved so much. “I could never do that.”

“I did not know it was what I wanted,” he admitted.

She nodded. “It’s good, though,” she said. “You seem to fit.”

While he agreed, it felt dangerous to say so. “We have not spoken of — the long term.”

Nyota shrugged. “You will. Give it time.”

Spock knew better than to question Nyota’s forecasts.

* * *

The next night, after a day of reporting on the aftermath of the floods and rains, Spock had to meet his father for dinner. Sarek had selected a restaurant that specialized in Southern Indian cuisine, a place to which Spock had never gone. Having no idea of the dress code, he wore the same suit he had been wearing on air, opting to be early rather than changing. Despite arriving ten minutes before dinner, Spock found his father already seated and waiting for him. As Spock approached, Sarek stood.

He had always been a tall man, though some of that height appeared, now, to be bowing under bent shoulders and his 75 years. Many profiles had described him as “stately” over the years, perhaps in recognition to his many years of service in the State Department. As Ambassador to the United Nations, he had been a frequent presence on television news and later at foreign policy affairs. He was currently a managing editor for a major foreign policy publication and the director of a think tank, and Spock thought he might also teach a college course at Georgetown once a year or so. This continuing work was, perhaps, responsible for the graying of his short hair or the wrinkles around his eyes, Spock thought, trying not to believe that he had aged so much between visits. Nevertheless, as he stood and extended a hand for Spock to take, Spock was taken aback by his father’s age. He had a brief and suppressible urge to reach out and embrace him.

Instead, he nodded as they shook hands. “Father. It is nice to see you.”

“My son, it is good to see you, as well.”

The food was delicious, the wine top-notch, and the conversation eventually warmed from halting to almost comfortable. Sarek described several of his most recent projects, including a trip to eastern China and a weekend retreat in Arizona. In turn, he asked Spock about the details of his own work, revealing, as he did so, that he was familiar with more than just broad strokes of Spock’s own career. This was more gratifying than Spock felt comfortable admitting.

By the time they were served their small desserts, the silence that fell was natural, not uncomfortable. Sarek broke it after his first bite. “You haven’t been in touch with Sybok since May?”

“No,” Spock said, “though I will admit to some curiosity about why you are asking. Has he done something?”

“In a manner of speaking," Sarek said, his mouth twisting up at the corners. “Your brother’s company is rumored to be considering going public later this year.”

“Ah. The messaging app?”

“Among others,” Sarek said. “He has managed to contain a multitude of technology acquisitions under one roof. Does your network use any technology from SBK?”

“Certainly,” Spock said. “Though technical equipment information is not my strong suit, I believe we currently contract with them for some of our networking services in addition to video editing technology.”

“Sybok is SBK,” Sarek said. “He’s had a controlling interest since day one, though his identity has been obscured thanks to some form of investment rule.”

Spock set down his spoon. SBK was a multi-billion-dollar international corporation, known for having a hand in everything. They were the Google of video communications technology, whether it was broadcast media equipment or the physical means to connect. If his brother was — “That’s impossible.”

“No, I’m afraid not,” Sarek said. “Should SBK choose to go public, estimates are that its controlling shareholder would become a billionaire overnight. Of course, he would also be revealed overnight, or likely earlier, as filing documents would doubtlessly reveal his identity.”

Before him, fat grains of rice swam in a creamy sauce. Spock pushed them around with his spoon, as though making sure that gravity still worked. “Sybok? Really?”

Sarek nodded. “He did always love computers,” he said. “I understand he holds a substantial number of patents, as well.”

Unsure how to react to this information, Spock chose to take a thoughtful bite of his dessert. It seemed impossible that the bratty half-brother who had alternately teased and protected him during grade school was on the verge of becoming one of the wealthiest people in the world. “I admit, I am surprised that this did not come up in our earlier conversations.”

Now, Sarek seemed interested in exploring the viscosity of his dessert. “For some time, it did not occur to me that you did not know. I knew the two of you were in touch, and I just assumed Sybok had described his work.”

“He did, actually,” Spock said, “though he was careful not to ever name a specific workplace. Or location. That has been something of a game between us.” In May, when he had called, Sybok had challenged Spock to find his location by sending a selfie where he leaned against a street sign. “I knew he was involved in the programming for the messaging app — I have used the prototype myself, and find it quite good, but… he did fail to mention that he was also the owner of the company.”

“I’m afraid that none of the men in our family are particularly given to easily revealing details about themselves, even to those they love.” When Sarek looked up, he seemed both amused and resigned.

“Oh? Is there more that you have to reveal?” Spock asked.

Sarek nodded, slowly. “But I would appreciate it if we could continue our conversation elsewhere. I grow weary, and the noise of the restaurant makes it difficult for me to hear.” He signaled their server and a check was placed before him, then whisked away, before Spock could offer even a token protest. “Might I take the liberty of inviting myself to your home for a final glass of wine this evening?”

“Of course,” Spock said. “Do you have a car here?”

“I do not,” Sarek said. “But I have recently had quite good luck with the Lyft app. Would you care to ride along?”

Spock had almost recovered from the mental shock of his upright, traditional father knowledgeably ordering a Lyft by the time they arrived at his apartment. He had not, however, engaged his brain well enough to realize that, for once, his apartment might not be empty.

Which meant that when he walked in with his father, Jim was already in the living room, lying on the couch, watching some form of sporting event at an inadvisable volume and eating popcorn from a large plastic bowl. Spock stared at him for a moment in surprise, and his mind zeroed in on the popcorn and bowl first, for no good reason. He was certain he did not own either.

“Um, hey," Jim said, sitting up so quickly that a few kernels of popcorn bounced out of the bowl. He muted the television swiftly. “You’re home.”

“Jim,” Spock said, and wasn’t sure what to say next. An apology seemed appropriate, perhaps to both men, but he wasn’t sure how to start that. It didn’t help that Jim was already changed into casual wear, worn, form-fitting jeans and a black T-shirt with an improbably varied 5-day forecast and the words “Welcome to Iowa” printed over it. His feet were bare. He looked settled in.

“You did not mention a roommate,” Sarek said, reasonably, stepping further into the living room, “and as I believe I recognize this gentleman from your television network, I cannot imagine that you must cohabitate out of financial necessity.” He turned to Spock, and now he was definitely amused, though his face stayed mostly blank. “I assume this is the romantic partner to whom you alluded at dinner?”

Spock just stared, apparently for so long that Jim said, “Um, yeah. That’s me.” He stood and crossed to them. “Jim Kirk, Ambassador, it’s a pleasure to meet you.”

“Likewise, Dr. Kirk,” Sarek said, and they shook hands. “I am pleased to make your acquaintance, as well.”

Jim looked right at him. “Spock, you still with us?”

“Yes,” Spock said, almost in a gasp. Somehow, seeing this happen was a surprise that he had not been prepared to deal with. “I’m — I apologize. I did not anticipate —“

“It’s fine,” Jim said. “Ambassador, can I get you something to drink? I have a bottle of Barolo open that Spock’s been excited about.”

“I would be amenable to that,” he said, calmly following Jim toward the wine rack in the kitchen, “and also to being called Sarek. I have no need of my title here.”

“Sounds good to me, if you’ll call me Jim,” Jim said. “Let’s find that drink.”

Spock paused a moment and took two calming breaths. Why he had never anticipated this particular collision of worlds was beyond him, and why it was striking him so strangely now would bear further reflection later. However, he needed to be present, and so he visualized locking away his concern and surprise and followed Sarek to the kitchen. “This vintage was recommended to me by the sommelier at Francesca’s,” he said, noting the bottle Jim had already opened.

Sarek nodded appreciatively. “I have also heard good things, though I have been able to partake less of late.”

Jim slid the glasses onto the bar top and reached for the bottle of wine. “Spock’s been converting me to better wine. I never knew enough about it to care, but he’s got quite the taste for it.”

“He gets that from his mother,” Sarek said, simply, as though it caused him no pain, even though it sent a bolt right through Spock’s chest. “She had a formidably sensitive palette, naturally attuned. She could pick out notes that even the vintners had missed.” He smiled as he said it, fond, and accepted a glass from Jim.

“I did not know this,” Spock murmured, taking his own glass with a hand that trembled just faintly.

“Oh yes. I drank mostly liquor before I met your mother,” Sarek said. He swirled his glass once before sipping. “This is very nice.”

“It really is,” Jim said, as though surprised. “Not sure popcorn was my best choice beforehand, though. Either of you need anything to eat?”

“I am already full, thank you,” Sarek said. He shifted as he stood, and Spock remembered how he had said he was weary during their dinner. He had opted to stand at the bar instead of taking a seat, and Spock wondered if perhaps the high chairs posed a physical problem.

“Father, would you be more comfortable in the living room?”

He turned slightly from where he had been watching Jim collect a bowl of nuts from Spock’s pantry. “Thank you, I believe so. I had a hip replaced approximately four months ago, and some actions still prove challenging.”

Spock swallowed. “Hip replacement? I did not know.”

Sarek waved one hand. “It is of no consequence. The surgery was a success, and some need for replacement is to be expected at my age.” He followed Spock to the living room and took a seat in the arm chair. “I am sorry I did not alert you to the procedure, but I was exercising a certain amount of denial about the seriousness of the entire endeavor.”

Jim sat on the couch next to Spock, a conservative cushion’s length between them. “My mother is the same way,” he said. “She always calls me after she’s had a health scare, not during. Doesn’t want to worry me.”

Sarek raised an eyebrow. “Is this successful?”

“Honestly? Not at all,” Jim said. “If I knew she would call me, I wouldn’t worry all the time. As it is, she could be in the hospital right now, and I’m not sure I know. Luckily, she travels with my brother, usually, so if anything does happen, at least I can count on him for a call.”

Jim’s mention of his brother reminded Spock of the big news from his own evening. He wasn’t sure it would be polite to mention it now, though, so instead he said, “Did you have anyone present for your surgery?”

“A colleague assisted me with arranging my care, and your aunt and uncle were kind enough to stay with me for a few days afterwards.” Sarek sipped his wine. “In fact, there was one other person who provided support, too, which I had hoped to talk with you about this evening.”

“Oh?” Spock couldn’t imagine Sybok had been present, but — well, it turned out he didn’t know that much about his brother, after all.

“Yes. Well before my surgery, I sought additional advice — an unofficial consult — with a surgeon I had met a few years ago at a fundraiser for Yale, Dr. Perrin Armstrong.”

“Really,” Jim said, sounding pleasantly surprised.

“Indeed,” Sarek said. “Our reacquaintance on social terms was a surprise, but, it has turned out, quite a pleasant one. She was widowed six years ago and has been practicing on a limited schedule at Columbia for the past two while completing some research there. I have found more reason to be in the city, recently, than before.”

Spock sat up, the realization striking him almost physically. “You are… seeing her. Romantically.”

“Yes,” Sarek said. “It was not my intention to engage in such a relationship, but —“

“But sometimes, it sneaks up on you,” Jim said. He rested a hand on Spock’s shoulder, either supportive or quelling. “Congratulations, sir.”

“Yes,” Spock said, taking Jim’s lead because he could not be trusted to think of his own response. “I, too, offer my… good wishes.” He narrowed his eyes. “I would like to meet her, I think.”

“Good,” Sarek said, “because she, too, would like to meet you. I — I had hoped you would be amenable to such a meeting, but I know it may seem much to ask.” Now, when he raised his eyes from his glass, Spock caught the faintest hint of emotion there, a glimmer of regret or perhaps longing. It struck him, then, that for all of these years, as they had drifted apart, Spock had been comforted and buoyed by his new life, while Sarek had been forging ahead in the remnants of a life without his wife and sons. For the first time, it occurred to him how lonely that might have been, and he felt a pang of real sadness for his father, such that he reached out and placed one hand on his arm. It was the most physical contact between them since, perhaps, just after his mother had died.

Sarek patted Spock’s hand with his own. “It is gratifying to see you,” he said. “I hope it will not be so long again.”

“I share this hope,” Spock said, and knew that he saw pleasure when Sarek met his eye.

Sarek lingered only for another fifteen minutes. The conversation fell into a lull after their declarations, as though everyone’s emotional energy had been spent. For Spock, at least, this felt true. Having seen his father into a car, he walked back upstairs feeling dizzy with revelation and emotion. Inside, Jim was rinsing the wine glasses in his sink. Spock thought about what he should still do: help with cleaning up, change his clothes, ask if Jim had eaten dinner, perhaps check in with work. Instead, he walked over and rested his forehead against the curve at the back of Jim’s neck and his hands on Jim’s waist, and he sighed into the soft cotton of his shirt.

“Long night, eh?” Jim shut the faucet off and turned, and Spock rested his head on his shoulder.

“Thank you,” Spock said.

“Hey, I can play live-in boyfriend with the best of them,” Jim said, rubbing Spock’s back.

Spock allowed himself a smile, and he looked up at Jim. “Jim, you have no permanent address in the city. When you are here, you spend 78 percent of your time outside of work and 95 percent of your nights in this apartment. Seven of your outfits are in the closet, along with extras of most of your preferred toiletries. You also now have a key and, I believe, received mail here earlier in the week.” He kissed the side of Jim’s mouth, which had fallen open slightly. “Not to instigate another surprising revelation tonight, but you were not playing at anything this evening. You are actually my live-in boyfriend. I do appreciate your courtesy and hospitality for my father, however.”

Jim looked at him, his eyes wide, and then it was as though Spock’s words clicked. He grinned. “Huh. Well. OK. I should keep the key then, I guess?”

“Please do,” Spock said. “And I would enjoy it were you to consider spending 100 percent of your in-town nights in my bed.”

Now his grin turned slightly wicked. “Ha. I think I would have the full percentage already, if it hadn’t been for that night you let Uhura get Bones so drunk at the bar.”

“As a medical professional, I would think the doctor was capable of knowing his own limits.” Jim laughed, and Spock felt it rumble through his own chest. He bent to kiss him again.

“Hm. Does this mean — like, should we tell people?” Spock raised an eyebrow. “Or, yeah, you’re right. All of our people have this figured out. Wow, am I the last to know?”

“I believe that may be true.”

“Dammit,” Jim said, and then turned his full attention to kissing Spock back.


	11. Chapter 11

Jim didn’t exactly officially move in, because Jim really didn’t spend much time in New York, but after that evening, the understanding became more formal: when he was in town, he slept at Spock’s apartment. This was true even the once or twice that Spock himself was traveling when Jim was in New York. The key stayed on Jim’s keyring. The drawer Spock had offered him became two drawers; his laundry started going out and returning with Spock’s, so that their pressed shirts lined up against each other in the closet. Rand perceptively started adding food to his orders that Spock never would have asked for, but the packages made Jim’s eyes light up: a box of frosted Pop Tarts next to Spock’s steel-cut oatmeal; a six pack of a microbrew tucked into the fridge; a flat container of fresh local sausages in Spock’s usually vegetarian meat drawer. Twice, Spock heard Jim refer to the apartment as “home.” It was nice.

Late fall required a little less travel, but Jim was still called to sit in a storm at least twice a month. The unpredictable shifts in the weather meant heat one day, near-freezing temperatures the next. Traveling made carrying appropriate outerwear a challenge, and so Spock watched as Jim sweated out a humid post-storm day in a waterproof rainslicker, then shivered through a broadcast from the first snowfall of the year, wearing a thin jacket underneath a borrowed puffy vest. Live from Green Bay, he stood in coursing rain and stared pale-faced across the screen at Spock, smiling even though Spock knew he loathed being wet and cold and had been awake for 22 hours. Spock held himself rigidly, afraid every single viewer would see how much he wanted to demand Jim leave the frigid street right away and go dip himself in a warm bath, drink cocoa, and call Spock.

_I’m really OK,_ came the text as soon as he was off air. A few seconds later, a photo of Jim asleep on a hotel bed came through, probably taken and sent by McCoy, and Spock let himself relax.

Of course, his relationship with Jim wasn’t the only headline non-work event in Spock’s life. After his conversation with Sarek, Spock had reached out to Sybok through the messenger app that was, apparently, part of his technology empire. By the time they met for dinner, Spock had done enough research to verify Sarek’s story: his brother was likely already worth a billion dollars, and if his company went public, so would his identity.

“I hope you don’t mind the repetition,” Sybok said, meeting Spock at the door to the same Indian restaurant where he had met Sarek, “but I have missed this place.”

“You introduced Sarek?”

“I introduced our father, yes,” he said, pausing to speak rapidly to the host in a language Spock did not recognize. “Tamil,” Sybok said as they were seated near the back. “I picked it up last year. Terribly useful.”

“I see.” As they walked across the restaurant, Spock took a moment to size up his brother. They had seen each other infrequently over the years, though Sybok had always been a reliable email correspondent and phone conversationalist. Still, meeting in person brought home how his brother had aged. Like Sarek (and Spock), he was tall and trim, with dark hair. Unlike Spock or his father, Sybok kept his hair long, wore piercings in both ears, and had a colorful tattoo sleeve on his right arm, just barely visible at the cuffs of his shirt. He wore jeans and gray button down, expensive leather shoes, and an overstuffed black messenger bag. Spock thought he looked like a slightly gone-to-seed bike messenger, and wondered if, next to him, Spock looked like either a real estate lawyer or an accountant for one.

After they sat, and after Sybok had rattled off their order, he turned and gave Spock a big, bright grin. It was a smile that always made Spock feel like the little brother being sized up, either as a potential playmate or a potential target. Tonight, he stared right back, raising an eyebrow but allowing no other emotion to flicker on his face.

“So, Dad told you.” He looked delighted.

“That you are apparently a technology tycoon? Yes.”

“Oh, tycoon. Such connotations. But I’ll take it, actually,” he said, and smiled mildly as their drinks were delivered. “Do you have questions?”

Spock sipped his mango lassi. It was delicious. “You can probably guess.”

“Why didn’t I tell you, eh? Well, in truth, I did tell you, once. I mentioned that I had decided to take over the world, and —“

“I was five,” Spock said.

“You were precocious.” Sybok smiled and folded his hands together on the tabletop. “Honestly, at first, it was just that I constantly felt like things were going to fall through at any moment. You know, that I’d be back to asking Dad for a bailout. And then, when things didn’t fall through — well, being the International Man of Messenger Mystery has been surprisingly enjoyable.” He tilted his head the same way Spock did when thinking, the same way their father had always done. “I do remember you’re a journalist, by the way, even if you emphasize the scientist part of your title.”

Spock again raised an eyebrow. “Is this on the record, then?”

Sybok laughed. “Certainly. The scoop can be yours! Or — perhaps you’d like to offer it to your friend, ah, Dr. Kirk?”

Spock groaned. “Father told you.”

“He didn’t have to, but yes,” Sybok said. “When can I meet him? I have so many years of embarrassing adolescent stories just percolating…”

“You are impossible,” Spock said, but he felt, somehow, that Sybok’s own enthusiasm and delight were catching. By the time he left that night, he’d promised he would attend if Sybok managed to arrange a dinner with their father and his girlfriend, and that he’d bring Jim, if he were in town. He’d also heard more of the story of Sybok’s rise to wealth and found out that, so far, he’d spent very little of his money.

“You’re comfortable, Dad’s comfortable, Grandmother’s — well, she’s never been comfortable but she hasn’t tried to burn down her retirement village for a few months, so that’s all I can ask for.” He shrugged. “I’m figuring out how to spend it. Who to give it to. It’s a complex process, I guess. You know, I’d rather be designing, helping people, than dealing with the finances, anyway.”

At the end of the meal, Sybok embraced him and then walked him out to the curb. A few leaves circled in the air around them and crunched underfoot; the light was fading, but it was still a beautiful autumn evening. Sybok planned to walk to the subway stop and savor the fall air, he said, while Spock was already looking forward to the warm car he would take home. “If you need anything,” Sybok said, and then looked down.

Spock almost laughed. “Do you mean money?”

“Sure,” he said, almost eager, “or, I don’t know. If you and Jim want to get away some weekend, I have — this is embarrassing, but I have a jet.” He shrugged. “It beats flying commercial.”

Spock stared at his brother for a moment, then shook his head and accepted an embrace. “I will keep it in mind.”

* * *

And he did. For a few days, at least, it was hard not to think about his brother the billionaire. Sybok’s technology empire was so vast that Spock literally could not escape it: he began spotting the equipment labels and software licenses wherever he went. After a two weeks of this, he decided it was likely prudent to find out whether this posed any professional problems.

“Ah, no, I wouldn’t think so,” said the network lawyer to whom he’d been directed. The man was tall, thin, elegant, and had looked mildly bored until Spock had explained the question in detail. “You aren’t currently involved in procurement, are you?”

“Not specifically,” Spock said, “though I have made equipment requests before.”

The lawyer smiled, just a small lift of pale lips. Spock felt surprised at his attraction to the man: he was nothing like Jim, nothing like anyone Spock had ever dated, but he was hard to look away from. His suit was so carefully tailored that it seemed to ripple with the movement of his muscles, like a second, designer skin. “Did you knowingly make requests for equipment in order to help a family member profit?”

“Never,” Spock said, confidently, and the lawyer nodded sharply.

“That’s that, then,” he said. “From now on, if anyone does ask you to sign off on equipment orders, you might give me a ring to make sure there’s no conflict.” As he stood, he smoothed his impeccably fitting blue shirt with one manicured hand, then said, “Or feel free to give me a ring if you have any other… questions.”

“I shall keep that in mind,” Spock said, understanding that their handshake was lingering a bit too long. As he walked away, he tried to decide what that had meant. He was no stranger to flirtation or to others’ attraction to him: one did not spend any appreciable time on television without developing some sense of one’s own physical attractiveness. This felt oddly different, though, perhaps because of the professional context.

“Yeah? You got the legal department hot for you now, huh?” Jim said, leaning across the counter that night. “You gonna throw me over for a sexy litigator?”

“If you continue to ignore my advice about wearing a hat when outdoors in freezing weather, I may consider it,” Spock said. He slid a cup of steaming tea toward Jim.

“Hats block audio,” Jim muttered, cupping the tea between his hands. “Thanks.”

Jim had already been home when Spock had arrived, asleep on the couch in an overly large Iowa State Cyclones sweatshirt and baggy sweatpants, with an unattractive puddle of drool below his mouth. It had made Spock smile. Elegant lawyers populated most of Manhattan. There was only one Jim Kirk.

Unfortunately, the world’s one and only Jim Kirk had a cold at the moment, likely made worse by his reckless behavior during his last storm trip. His voice was scratchy, his eyes red, and he discreetly dabbed at his nose all evening. “Do you need to go to bed?” Spock asked.

“I wanted to hear more about this lawyer. Figure out if I need to get worried, start working on my boxing game again or pissing on your stuff or what.” Spock rolled his eyes. “What’s his name, anyway?”

“John Harrison,” Spock said, and Jim grinned widely. “Do you know him? Oh. He’s the network lawyer who deals with personnel and ethics issues. Of course you know him.”

“We have met on the field of battle,” Jim confirmed. “I’ve had some zingers from his office before, one big nasty fight a few years back. Smart guy.”

“Noted.”

Jim said gave Spock a once-over. “I feel sort of vicariously thrilled that he was interested in you. Seemed like a cold fish to me, but I guess I’m not his type.”

Spock watched as Jim rubbed his nose with his sleeve. “Yes, it is hard to imagine that your charms are not universally recognized.”

Jim laughed. “What’d you have to see him for, anyway?”

“Sybok,” Spock said. He led Jim over to the couch by promising the full story, and then, once Jim settled in with his stuffed up head in Spock’s lap, he told him everything. Jim, no stranger to the oddities of famous people, took it all in stride.

“So your brother is like… the Steve Jobs of broadcast media equipment?”

“I believe he is more like Mark Zuckerberg,” Spock said, and Jim’s eyes went wide. “Though more secretive, and, at least when last I knew, not on Facebook at all.”

“That is both really weird and probably really cool. No, definitely really cool. Hey, do you think he’d buy me another Enterprise?”

Spock smoothed his fingers through Jim’s hair and watched his eyes slide closed. “Are you planning to damage the one you have?”

“Always good to have a back up,” Jim said. His voice was already thick with approaching sleep. “I’ll totally go to that dinner with you, by the way.”

“Thank you,” Spock said. He had mentioned Sybok’s idea of a meet-the-family dinner only in passing, not sure whether Jim would balk. “I believe you might enjoy Sybok, and I have no doubt he will enjoy meeting you.”

“Why’s that?”

“Sybok enjoys everything,” Spock said. “When I was a child, my mother thought perhaps he would grow up to be a clown.”

One of Jim’s eyes briefly opened. “Like a creepy one?”

“No. I believe she pictured the type of clown that visits children’s hospitals,” Spock said. “He has always wanted to alleviate others’ pain, and he has never seemed to struggle with producing positive emotions in others and in himself. It is a trait I have envied, over the years.”

“You produce plenty of positive emotions in me,” Jim said, settling back in. He sniffled. “I’d be happy to show you, but —“

“Raincheck,” Spock said, and stroked Jim’s hair until he fell asleep.


	12. Chapter 12

Jim left town the next evening to cover outrageously early Lake Effect Snow in Buffalo, looking miserable but promising to wear his hat, and returned four days later with pneumonia. The first night back, his coughing was so severe that Spock woke McCoy in the middle of the night to ascertain the best treatment.

McCoy prescribed antibiotics, rest, and use of an inhaler. Jim, Spock reasoned, could be trusted to complete perhaps none of those three things on his own, and so he called in for an unscheduled day off simply to be certain of Jim’s wellbeing. When Jim surfaced near lunchtime, nose red and body bent in exhaustion, he glared across the living room at Spock. “Shouldn’t you be at work?”

“I am told it will still be there tomorrow,” Spock said, “whereas I’m less certain about you.”

“Dramatic,” Jim said, but it sounded like a sigh. He wobbled on his feet and fell into Spock’s armchair. “I can take care of myself.”

“All evidence to the contrary,” Spock said, but he rested a calm hand on Jim’s shoulder. “My presence at work is not critical. The storms have passed, and I have approximately 82 days of vacation built up.”

Jim laughed, then coughed. When he could breathe clearly, he said, “Workaholic. Takes one to know one, I guess.”

“Indeed.” Spock rubbed Jim’s shoulder, discouraged that his fever didn’t seem to have fully abated. He knew that the weather itself hadn’t caused Jim’s illness, but the stress of being exposed to it for so long certainly hadn’t helped. “Did you feel this unwell when you were in Buffalo?”

“No,” Jim said, eyes closing, “not quite.”

“Why did Dr. McCoy let you —“

“He’s not my boss,” Jim said, voice suddenly sharp, “and neither are you, Spock, OK? I went out because I wanted to be out there. It was —“ he paused, coughed twice, and shook his head. “It was a beautiful storm. Everything was so still. You know how it gets? It’s not like that with rain or anything else. Eye of a hurricane comes the closest, maybe, but that stillness before and during a big snow storm, it’s really something.” He smiled, faintly. “Used to be my favorite thing. The only thing I could count on to calm me down, you know? Snow day. Beautiful snow.”

Spock ran his hand through Jim’s hair, gently, watching his eyes again flutter closed. “‘Was’ your favorite?”

“Oh,” Jim said, and Spock thought perhaps his cheeks had a reddish tinge. “Well. It’s number three now. Now, I’ve got the Enterprise.”

Spock rolled his eyes. “Of course.”

“And,” Jim said, cracking open one eye, “now I can come home to you.”

Jim was free with his declarations, but Spock found this one particularly warming. “I am glad,” Spock said, and Jim nodded and closed his eyes.

They spent most of the day in the living room, Jim dozing on the couch while Spock either worked or idly watched television beside him. By bedtime, Jim was still exhausted, but Spock had enough energy to read, which he did with a small bedside light while Jim slept beside him. He had no desire for Jim to be ill, but the evening left little else for him to want.

The next morning, after he climbed out of the shower, he found Jim sitting up on the side of the bed. “I’m OK,” he said.

Spock gave him a critical eye. He had sweated through his shirt the night before and then shivered violently once it was removed; though it was late morning, he still looked exhausted, and some of his breaths carried a faint whistling wheeze. “You aren’t considering going to work.”

“No,” Jim agreed, as though it was a question. “But you should. I know, you have a million days of vacation and everyone loves you, but — I’m just saying, if you and I are going to burn some time off together, we should do it when we can both enjoy it.” He waggled his eyebrows, the attempt at seduction completely lost when he coughed.

“I’m not yet confident that you should be left alone.”

Half of Jim’s mouth lifted in an almost-smile. “Well, about that. My, uh. My mom’s coming over.”

Now Spock’s eyebrows had a chance to wag. “Your mother. She is coming — here? From Iowa?”

“She hasn’t really lived in Iowa for a while,” he said. “She’s been traveling, and she landed here about a week ago. She and my brother. They’re in town for a least a few weeks, so I tried to put her off, but —“

“No, of course,” Spock said. “You are ill. I’m sure your mother will want to see you.”

“Sure,” Jim said, then shook his head. “Don’t worry about me. I’ll have Mom around, and Sam, and if I need anything, I bet Bones would come over for a while, too.”

So Spock went to work. This was eminently logical. It was not until the mid-afternoon initial rundown meeting that he realized why this felt so strange.

“How’s Jim?” Nyota asked after they wrapped their discussion. Spock had an elaborate model of the weekend’s storm systems to test, and he was thinking mostly of that as they walked back to their area.

“I believe he is better than yesterday,” he said. He woke his computer and adjusted the desk to standing height. The new email could certainly be ignored, but the instant message from Chekov about parameters for the model would need immediate attention.

“OK to be left alone?”

“His mother is with him,” Spock said.

Nyota laughed. “Wow. Meeting the parents and everything, are you? Has he met your dad?”

“He has," Spock said, and then paused. “I actually have not met his mother, and I admit, I don’t know if the opportunity will present itself today.” In fact, he reflected, Jim had been surprisingly quick to send Spock off to work that day, and he had only revealed his mother’s presence as encouragement.

He allowed himself to brood over these facts for approximately one hour before he recognized the solution. _Am I permitted to meet your mother while she is in town?_

It took Jim six minutes to text back, by which point Spock had already decided he must be napping. _You really want to? She’s kind of intense._

_You have met my father, & I’ve heard him similarly described._

_Can we talk when you’re home?_

_Certainly._

The conversation hadn’t made Spock feel much better, but at least it was all out in the open. They would have a discussion, like adults, about whether or not Jim was comfortable sharing the details of their relationship with his mother, and either way, Spock would work to respect his wishes. After all, it wasn’t as though he himself had called Sarek the moment they had started dating.

Still, it gnawed at him, a persistent little worry on the edge of his perception. It didn’t make him testy or too quiet, but Spock felt more keyed up than usual when he left the Lab Deck stage that night. He said quick goodbyes and was in his car within 25 minutes of coming off the air. Twenty minutes after that found him in his own apartment, slowly peeling off his tie as he stepped into the half-dark living room.

He had expected that he might find Winona Kirk still in residence upon his arrival. After all, mothers tended to enjoy assisting their children when ill. Perhaps the stillness was an indication of Jim’s improvement. Perhaps he was resting under her caring, watchful eye.

Spock lingered in the kitchen for a moment, wondering whether he should interrupt. The logic of it being his own apartment finally won over his trepidation of disturbing a tender mother/son moment, and he carefully, quietly slid open the door to the bedroom.

Jim lay sleeping inside, curled on one side, a hand under his now-scruffy face. He had a tissue box resting on Spock’s usual pillow, and the bedside table held a collection of cups and one empty plastic container. The room smelled like sweat and the oily-garlic scent of delivered Chinese food. Clearly, Winona Kirk was no longer present.

Spock sat on the side of the bed, and Jim stirred. “Hey," he murmured, rubbing his hand over his face. “What time is it?”

“Late,” Spock said. Jim’s eyes were red and his voice was rough and low. “I only wanted to let you know I’m home, and to see if you need anything.”

“I’m good,” Jim said, eyes already closing. “Glad you’re back. Probably don’t sleep in here, though, I feel like I’ve made the whole room diseased.”

“If I haven’t caught it yet, I doubt I still will,” Spock said. He rubbed Jim’s side and smiled when Jim turned onto his stomach, giving Spock the space to rub his entire back. “How was your visit with your mother?”

He shrugged, and Spock massaged below his shoulder blades. “Fine. Short.”

“She did not stay with you?”

“Nah. I didn’t think she would, really. She’s got stuff to do around town, and sick kids were never her thing.” The half of Jim’s face that Spock could see looked calm. “Sam stayed a while. We ordered from Plum Plum.”

“I see,” Spock said.

Jim’s visible eye closed. “Tired," he murmured.

Spock had no energy for discussion at the moment, either. Jim looked too worn. “Then rest.”

* * *

The next morning, Spock found the remainders of Jim’s Chinese food in the refrigerator next to the yogurt. There was enough leftover food that he could deduce either Jim had eaten hardly anything or he had ordered for more people than had actually eaten. “Did your brother not enjoy his food?” he asked, after Jim had stirred and slumped into a kitchen chair.

“No, he ate, like, an entire carton of the Plum Chicken.”

“Ah. Did you order extra for me?”

“Oh, ah, no, though now I feel like a dick for that,” Jim said. He stared down at his mug of tea. “We ordered for Mom, but by the time it came she had changed plans.”

Spock stared at him, took in the way he wasn’t looking at Spock. “Did she visit at all yesterday?”

“Yeah,” Jim said, “basically to drop Sam off. Then she was supposed to come back, but…” He shrugged. “Plans changed.”

“Indeed.”

Jim rolled his eyes. “This is why I haven’t introduced you. Well, this, and a few other important reasons.”

Rand had left a bag with freshly baked rolls, and Spock decided they would be best if toasted. He cut them in half, then popped them in the toaster before turning back to Jim. “Such as?”

“She might be excited,” he said, and when Spock kept staring, wondering why this would be a problem, Jim continued, “I mean like call the papers excited, Spock. My mom, she kind of lives in her own publicity-fueled world.” He paused to cough, hard, wracking coughs that drew his shoulders in and made his face red. Spock rested one hand on the back of his neck, finding no fever, and waited for his breathing to return to normal. He offered McCoy’s prescribed inhaler, which Jim took without protest (but with a bit more coughing).

Finally, Jim set the inhaler down and picked up his tea again. Spock felt fortunate that he was not due into the office for several more hours, as he was not at all sure Jim should be left unattended. Jim patted his hand and pulled away. “Don’t worry. I’m fine.”

“Hm.” Spock did step back, and he busied himself preparing himself a cup of fresh tea and pulling jam from the refrigerator. “You believe your mother would out us in the press?”

“Maybe,” Jim said, then sighed. “Yeah, actually. I think she would. Maybe — it might not be totally intentional, but she would, it would be some casual aside in a profile or a line in an email to a gossipy friend.” He rubbed his forehead. “I love my mother. Mostly. But she’s nobody’s idea of a perfect mom, which, I gotta be honest, I feel like you’d hold against her.”

Spock frowned, drawing out a butter knife. “Jim, she is your mother. Your opinion of her is all that matters to me.”

“That’s nice of you to say, but that’s not really how this works, is it?” Jim had now rested his head fully in his hands.

“If you feel it would be best if we did not meet,” Spock said, voice even, drawing butter in quick strokes over the warm bread, “then I will abide by your wishes, of course.”

“It’s not — I’m not ashamed of you, or us, or us being together,” Jim said, so swiftly and almost dismissively that Spock did believe him. “I just — she’s complicated. And I don’t, oh, Christ, it’s kind of hard to say this, but I don’t fully trust her, not with everything there is to know about me.”

“It is fine,” Spock said, feeling it would do no good for Jim to be worked up at the moment.

Jim shook his head. “It’s not. She’s… after my dad died, her life was pretty weird for a pretty long time, and she kind of, she takes it seriously that she’s responsible for his legacy. She and Sam, they travel all over, doing stuff for the George Kirk Foundation, her charity, and she’s pretty, ah, image conscious. She likes getting in the news.”

“For her charity work?”

“For that. For her own work — oh, she, ah, she’s done a couple of albums, like, singing along to jazz standards. She does some modeling, some small appearances. Uh, Sam told me once she thought about going on some kind of show, like, Celebrity Big Brother or something like that?” Spock realized his opinion of that type of show must have shown on his face, because Jim pointed at him. “Yeah. I know. Me, too, but it’s my mom.”

Spock slid a plate with over to Jim, the roll buttered and then slathered in what Spock would personally find to be an unreasonable amount of jam. Jim said, “Thanks. This is good.”

He spooned a bit of jam onto his own before sitting next to Jim. “I believe it is from the bakery two blocks over.”

“Oh, with the cheese rolls?”

Spock nodded. The bread was good, thick with a chewy crust but still airy inside. Butter and blackberry jam melded sweet-sour-rich on his tongue, and he suddenly didn’t want to talk about Jim’s mother anymore. It felt like a day that should be quiet and only for them, a day for luxuriating in just being together. Jim could stay in his pajamas; Spock would make more tea. It sounded wonderful. He wasn’t sure how to tell Jim that or whether it would seem too emotional, so he said nothing, just enjoying his roll.

Jim had already finished half of his. He sipped his tea and coughed gently. “I think, sometimes, she thinks I’m just in TV because that’s where Dad got his start. Like she’s waiting for me to grow up and realize I should be in movies, should be really Hollywood famous.”

Spock could picture that, actually. The photos of young George Kirk clearly depicted an attractive man, and Spock had often wondered if what wasn’t visible in those black-and-white shots was the same charisma that Jim deployed effortlessly, the vitality of his always-thinking personality. It was not hard to picture Jim becoming famous. Spock recognized his own bias, of course, but he sometimes couldn’t understand why Jim wasn’t already the face of the network. He chose his next words carefully. “Did you ever have an interest in acting?”

“Eh. I was in, like, two high school musicals, but that was about the extent of it for me.” He shook his head. “I needed more action. If I’m gonna get super famous, I hope it’s for the work I’ve done, for actually fucking saving something, not for playing someone else, you know?”

Spock nodded. “So you’re saying I should not hold my breath for an upcoming Jim Kirk: Survivor series?”

He laughed. “I suppose stranger things have happened.” For a few moments, they both concentrated on their food and coffee, and the silence was comfortable, though Spock still had questions. Before he could ask, though, Jim said, “If you want to meet her, it’s fine with me. I — I can ask her to play nice. Or get my brother to do it.” He sighed. “She mostly listens to Sam.”

The reluctance in Jim’s voice was laced with some other, more complex emotion, and Spock believed him: it was not that he did not want to introduce Spock as his partner, but that such a meeting with his mother would carry certain other emotional weights. “Would it perhaps be better,” Spock said, holding his tea but not drinking it, “and less fraught, to find out if your brother is available for dinner sometime?”

Jim’s entire face brightened. “Sam? You wanna meet him? Sure. I — we can do that just about any time they’re here. I mean, I’m maybe not clear to go out tonight, but —“

“I can wait,” Spock said, touching Jim’s shoulder gently. “There will be time.”


	13. Chapter 13

After a week spent bored on the couch, Jim was enough recovered from his pneumonia to go back to work, according to McCoy. Jim took this as permission to work full steam, and he was back on an away assignment within a day. Spock did not like it: He didn’t think Jim was as fully recovered as he said, and he didn’t like how empty the apartment felt around him once Jim had left.

This was a frequent source of tension between them. They didn’t argue, but they did often disagree about Jim’s choices when out in the field. He sought adventure both for its own sake and because it made for good television, while Spock felt that he took unnecessary risks with his own health and safety. The discussions were often vigorous but never felt dire or particularly adversarial.

“I simply believe there is no logic in the course you’re pursuing,” Spock said one night, barely a week after Jim’s return to work. Jim and his team were filming in Texas for the next few days as an expected risky weather system pushed across the state. They had filed reports that night while cloud-to-ground lightning zinged in the distance, making for a beautiful and dangerous spectacle. The next day, Jim was proposing to film from a local lake-side resort area, where the likelihood of flooding would be significant. They had last seen each other three days ago.

“I’ll take it under advisement,” Jim said, with a tone that seemed to promise the opposite. “Speaking of advice, I really want to hear what you think about my costume plans. Turn on Skype?”

“Yes. One moment.”

For reasons that Spock had never fully investigated, Admiral Komack required attendance at an annual costume party at the end of every year. Spock had rarely been successful in his attempts to skip the party. Komack was adamant he attend, calling it necessary morale-boosting. He always brought in anchors from FNN for the night.

This year, Spock tried not to look forward to the event, but he was already failing. Jim had been teasing him with hints about his costume all week, while Spock had yet to reveal a single detail of his own plans. The now-too-familiar tones of Skype gave way to the sound of Jim’s helpless, amused-with-himself laughter a moment before the screen resolved into his picture.

Spock took a moment to gape. On screen, Jim had started to get himself under control.

“I do not think this is as funny as you think it is,” Spock said, managing to keep his face nearly blank. Jim wore what appeared to a be a small, white skirt that had something puffy — cotton balls? Wadded up Kleenex? — attached to the outside. He was standing before the bed in his hotel room, twirling so that Spock could see his handiwork.

“Arctic minimum ice! Come on, it’s a weather network costume party,” Jim said, grinning down at his ice floe. “And I think I have Scotty 95 percent convinced to go as arctic max ice. It’s gonna be great!”

“It’s in December, with a high chance of sub-freezing temperatures,” Spock said, “and the bar can be… drafty.”

Jim laughed. “Does that mean I can’t count on you to keep me warm?”

Spock rolled his eyes. “I am fully against melting sea ice,” he said.

“Uh-huh.” He watched as Jim wrestled himself into a sweatshirt, which was an endearingly awkward move. “Do you have something against the costume party? I know it’s not everyone’s cup of tea,” he said, now pulling on sweatpants and discarding the ice skirt.

Spock shook his head. “I have no strong feelings about the party either way. I do always attend at least the banquet.”

“What about actual holidays?”

“I regularly volunteer to work on major holidays,” Spock admitted. He idly stirred his tea. Around him, the apartment felt too empty, too quiet. “My father and I have not chosen to celebrate the winter holidays together for several years, and my brother has often been unavailable. It has been logical for me to take —“

“Spock,” Jim said, gently, shaking his head. “Look, I get why you do this, but promise me: this year, if you can, take some holiday time off. Like, hey, Thanksgiving, you should get time off.”

“Oh?”

Jim nodded. “Sulu and Ben are hosting. Bones has always done a big thing, but — you know, with the divorce, it’s been hard. He needs something to look forward to, and we are it.”

Spock looked at the screen and thought about it. He had avoided these particular holidays and entanglements for so long that he’d almost forgotten what it was like to be invited. “I will see what I can do.”

“Good,” Jim said. He settled back onto his motel room bed, leaning against a cheap oak headboard. The light of the room made him appear faintly orange. “I’ll tell Sulu to add a chair.”

Spock squinted. “I believe that is my sweatshirt.”

“Well, if you want it back, come and get it,” Jim said. “Let me tell you, Texas is lovely this time of year.”

“I do not need a meteorology degree to know that is not true,” Spock said. “However, I do think the company would be an improvement over what I have here.”

“You say the sweetest things.” He yawned. “I miss you, too, you know. Hoping things will settle down tomorrow.”

The curse of being excellent with forecasts was knowing exactly how unlikely that outcome was. Still, he also wanted the weather to improve, knowing it would make it more likely for Jim to be back in the city for a longer while. They chatted idly for a while longer, trading stories about their days. Spock had again spent more time than he would have liked caught in Karen’s office, talking about possible shifts in the management of their primetime block; Jim had filmed a segment about the process for evacuating a city zoo that had nearly led to him being bitten by a monkey. When they signed off, Spock stared for a few moments at the blank screen of his tablet. He could hear the faint rumble of traffic far below, a rising horn blare here and there, and the wind rattling the fire escape, but it wasn’t quite enough. His apartment — their apartment — had started to feel a bit empty without Jim around.

This troubled him. Spock had considered himself an independent person for most of his life, particularly after his mother’s death. He had little need for close attachments. Those few he had formed tended to be amiable, even sometimes warm, but never clingy on either side. T’Pring was the friend he had known the longest, since their time together at MIT, and even at the peak of their attempt at a romantic relationship, Spock had never felt quite this same loss when she was absent. It was unnerving. In fact, the only thing about which Spock had ever felt so strongly was his work: he had been known to neglect all manner of other commitments in favor of climate research or modeling. Now, what really worried him was the feeling that it might be a hard decision to choose between work and Jim.

Spock thought it logical to see how things developed between them, without expectation, and yet he wondered more and more whether Jim’s feelings matched his own. He wondered whether others could see how much he had come to desire Jim; the thought of being so exposed, even in the relatively safe confines of work, made him feel faintly ill.

What he needed to do, he thought, was work harder at defining a separation between the space in his life for Jim (his personal life), and the space in his life for work (his professional life). Jim was present in both, as were most of his friends, but that didn’t mean that their interactions needed to be the same. After all, it was illogical and a curse to efficiency for him to be longing for Jim’s presence when his work still had so many ways to usefully occupy his time.

This resolve was put to the test shortly thereafter.

* * *

The weather did not cooperate, and it was a full week before Spock saw Jim again in person. That time, they caught sight of each other across the crowded newsroom, just after Spock’s first on-air appearance of the day. Spock had not expected Jim back until late that night, and he trailed off in the middle of speaking with Chekov and Nyota when he spotted Jim and McCoy walk in.

“Ah,” Nyota said. “Surprise?”

“Indeed,” Spock said, shaking his head. He refocused on the conversation, zeroing in on Chekov’s point about the volatility of the forecast for the Northeast. As he explained the way they modeled early-season snow events, where forecasts were still difficult to make because the ground was comparatively warm, he had to struggle to keep his full attention on the conversation before him. Somewhere in the room behind him, McCoy burst out laughing, and Spock wondered if that meant Jim was nearby.

But he needed to work, and so that was what he did. For the next three hours, he was efficiently productive, churning through a scheduled hour of narration taping, two short content meetings, a production huddle, and three quick phone calls. He never once looked across the room to see what Jim and his crew were up to because he didn’t need to: everything he needed to know about Jim professionally was waiting in his inbox, with the nightly call sheet and plans for the primetime hour.

“Looks like he’ll be home late," Nyota said, sliding the rundown for the 11 p.m. show onto Spock’s desk.

Spock narrowed his eyes, but Nyota didn’t look at all abashed. She tapped one perfect, red fingernail against the A block, where Spock saw Jim’s name next to a segment. Of course it made sense for Jim to do a bit of on-air reporting and a bit of commentary, when he had just returned from the storm-damaged center of the country, but it also meant they likely would not be alone at home until well after midnight.

“It is logical for them to invite his appearance,” Spock said.

She nodded. “Maybe so. But it doesn’t mean it’s any fun for either of you.”

That was true enough not to require a reply, and so Spock slid the schedule back and stood up. He crossed to the staff room to grab a new cup of coffee, and there he ran into Jim. Their time apart had been filled with contact — texts, video calls, e-mails, photos — but Spock was surprised again by the strength of Jim’s physical magnetism. He wore fitted black trousers and a slim-fit white shirt, probably his outfit for air, though his collar was open, his jacket was missing, and his hair still unstyled. Unbidden, thoughts of how Spock might touch him without disturbing his wardrobe flickered through his mind, and he nearly backed out of the room.

Jim had just poured himself a coffee, and now he offered Spock one. If he was similarly affected by Spock’s presence, Spock saw no signs, though he knew he cut a respectably fine figure in his own on-air apparel.

“You are back early," he finally said, sipping his too-hot coffee.

Jim nodded. “There was nothing more to get out there that we don’t already have, and we were more in the way of the electrical crews than anything. Sorry I didn’t text about the change but I kind of fried my phone again.” He made a face. “This coffee sucks. I’ll buy you one downstairs?”

It surprised Spock how nervous he felt about being alone with Jim at the moment. “I should remain to finish the evening’s script,” Spock said.

Jim rolled his eyes. “I promise to keep my hands to myself.”

Now Spock let himself look Jim up and down, slowly, taking in every inch of what he had missed. “That is not precisely my concern,” he murmured. Jim’s eyebrows went up, and Spock returned his attention to his own drink. “I do not mind this coffee.”

“Uh-huh. Come on. Take fifteen minutes," he said, stepping just slightly closer.

Spock was about to say yes, knew Jim could see it in his eyes, when a faint throat-clearing interrupted them. He moved back instantly, while Jim barely seemed to acknowledge the interruption. “Hello, Spock. I was told I might find you here,” John Harrison said, eyes moving in an obvious sweep between the two of them. “Dr. Kirk.”

“Hey, John,” Jim said, voice too lazy. “I’d say it’s nice to see you, but… I’m not clear on whether that’s an ethical violation.”

“It violates no code to feel pleasure when seeing someone,” he said, attention now laser-focused on Jim, “but there may, of course, be problems if and when you choose to act on those feelings in the workplace.”

Jim, to his credit, only smiled more broadly, while Spock wasn’t sure he managed to keep himself from wincing. “Good tip. Thanks. Spock, talk to you later.”

As he left, Harrison’s gaze switched to Spock. “He is right, you know. The coffee here is atrocious. I need to ask you something — perhaps more than I had originally planned — and it would be better accompanied by a good drink. I plan to work late into the evening — call up when you’re free, if you would?”

“Of course,” Spock said, and then watched Harrison walk toward Karen’s office. That, he thought, did not bode well at all.

He walked back to his desk, clutching the terrible coffee. His phone blinked up at him, and he checked his messages, finding a single character from Jim: _?_

 _Not sure,_ Spock wrote back. _Have to meet w/him tonight._

_Should I wait up?_

_Unclear._

_Keep me posted. And raincheck on the coffee break. Or “coffee break”_

Spock clicked off his phone screen, feeling furtive, and turned to his work. That, at least, went smoothly; even their meeting that evening to plan the nightly features went well, with Jim across the table but fully professional. Spock was feeling optimistic by the time he took the elevator to Harrison’s office, having called up to make sure he was free.

“Come in,” Harrison said, waving Spock toward a couch near the center of the room. “I have coffee and I have brandy. Would you like one or both?”

It was far too late for coffee, Spock thought, and then decided perhaps the combination would be fine. “Both, please.”

“Excellent choice.” Harrison began pouring coffee from a French press into two delicate green-glass mugs. “I wanted to check back in with you about the purchasing request from your team. There are several items that seem to be products from your brother’s companies. Were you involved in the procurement process?”

“No,” Spock said. “I asked T’Pring to head up the search for new software and hardware. My only charge was that they find the best possible equipment and explain their rationale for its purchase.”

Harrison nodded. He began adding brandy to each cup out of a cut-glass decanter. “I thought as much, but it is my job to ask. If you would, have her attach the research notes that exist along with a copy of the final order and send it to me. We’ll keep it on file for any future concern about this.” He smiled winningly. “Always good to have a paper trail, even in the digital age, you know.”

Spock nodded. He accepted his cup of coffee and felt some surprise when Harrison sat on the other end of the couch instead of in an available arm chair. “I’m glad to help,” he said.

Harrison nodded. The coffee was surprisingly sweet, and Spock wasn’t sure whether it was the alcohol or a flavoring. He sipped slowly. “Of course, I wonder if there’s another conversation we might be having right now.”

“Oh?”

Harrison looked at him with a flat, unimpressed stare. “You’re going to make me say it, then? All right. We can do the formal route. Are you currently involved in a romantic and/or sexual relationship with Jim Kirk?”

“Ah,” Spock said, and then set his coffee on Harrison’s side table. “As I am not currently involved with anyone who is under my direct or indirect supervision, I was unaware that a formal declaration of my relationship status was necessary.”

“Technically, you do somewhat outrank him, don’t you, Senior Meteorologist?” Harrison took a slow sip from his drink. “Is that part of the allure? Can’t be that many men who’ve bested Jim Kirk at anything, I would think.”

Spock wanted to sigh, but he held himself in check. “In the professional context, I may have a slightly better contract than Dr. Kirk does,” Spock said, “but in terms of practical clout, I’m not certain who outranks whom. Nor does it particularly matter, as neither one of us has promotion or demotion power over the other.”

“That is an interestingly narrow definition of what constitutes a reportable relationship,” Harrison said, sounding admiring. “Really, Spock, I’m not here to get you in trouble, and for what it’s worth, I do think you’re right: you’re just close enough to equals to make most of the HR problems non-issues. I am rather surprised, though, that I’m just catching on now, what with you being such a close confidant of Karen Komack’s.”

Now Spock held himself still for completely other reasons. “I have chosen to keep my personal and professional lives separate in this regard.”

Harrison arched an eyebrow. “Understandable," he said, after a long pause. “I, too, have had reason not to be completely forthcoming with Ms. Komack, at times, in matters of personal regard.” His eyes slipped obviously up and down Spock’s body, and Spock stayed still. “Well, don’t think I haven’t noticed that you have neither confirmed or denied your relationship with _Doctor_ Kirk, but I have enjoyed this chat.” He drained his drink. “If ever things fall into a less formal category between you, I hope you’ll let me know.”

Spock stood, understanding the dismissal. “Thank you for the drinks.”

By the time he reached the elevator, he was holding on to his outward calm by sheer force of will and habit. His fingers shook slightly as he tried to text Jim. _That was terrible_ , he wrote.

_Yeah? I have 10 min before makeup if you want to come by._

_Perhaps later_ , Spock wrote, feeling suddenly exposed. He had no doubt that Harrison had held suspicions about Spock’s relationship with Jim before that evening; they had done little to conceal their relationship among their closest associates, and Spock was certain that meant they’d been careless around too many others. He could picture now the dozens of potential witnesses to their swift egress to Jim’s hotel room in Baton Rouge, the several others who would have seen him walking out of Jim's room too early in the morning. Spock had declined the network’s offer to arrange for his cell phone payment and plan, but he wondered, now, if Jim’s phone was network-owned. If so, he imagined it was the work of a few minutes for someone of Harrison’s standings to pull information from it, and even without content, the frequency of the messages between them would tell an accurate story.

By the time he’d reached his desk, Spock felt feverish with dread, and he wasn’t completely certain as to why. Of course, Harrison could inform Karen Komack of the relationship, which would likely cause at least an awkward discussion between them and, perhaps, a rude awakening for her about his lack of actual personal regard for her, but that was a surmountable consequence. Spock doubted his job would be in any danger, were the relationship more widely known, and Jim’s job also seemed secure. What he’d said to Harrison was true: they were not in violation of any network fraternization policies. In fact, the main concern that came from their relationship becoming public knowledge was probably that it would generate some unwanted publicity for the network.

Yet Spock still felt wary. He wasn’t sure how to express this to Jim but, luckily, Jim had his own concerns.

“Yeah,” he said that night, when Spock recounted the conversation with Harrison. “So, I’ve kind of been down this road with the network already, with Carol. I think refusing to confirm is fair. It’s not going to make Harrison like you much more —“

“I do not desire that he should like me _more_ ,” Spock said.

“— and there might be some rumor mill bullshit to deal with, but…” He shrugged. “I’m up for that if you are. And it would keep us under the official radar, which would mean I don’t quite have to get my mom involved yet.”

Spock nodded. This seemed reasonable, and it aligned well enough with his own desires that he didn’t feel a need to question it further.

However, remaining unofficial at work did not stop Spock’s family from adopting Jim as one of their own.

They had dinner with Spock’s father and brother the week before Thanksgiving. Heading into the busiest travel holiday of the year, there were no major storm systems yet predicted. FWN had decided to rely largely on local weather stations for updates if something did come up, and to seed this, they were using reports from the field already. Though Spock knew Jim had received an offer to contribute live to the network’s coverage of one of the major parades, he had turned it down in favor of having the holiday completely free. The good weather and the network’s plans meant Jim had ten full days of New York-only reporting to do and at least that many nights to spend with Spock. Thus, when Sybok called and announced he’d found the perfect time, date, and place for dinner, Spock had accepted on his and Jim’s behalf. That was how they all came to be back at the same Indian restaurant: Sybok, Spock, Jim, Sarek, and Sarek’s guest, Dr. Armstrong.

“Perrin, please,” she said, when Spock defaulted to her title.

“Jim,” Jim said, shaking her hand. “I’m, ah, I’m with Spock.”

She smiled, a small, reserved smile. “That seems an apt description for my own role with Sarek, too. It is nice to meet you, Jim. And you, Spock.”

Dinner was not bad. The food, of course, was excellent, and the conversation was better than Spock would have expected. Somewhere along the way, as he’d been quietly snapping up technology patents and firms, Sybok had apparently mastered the art of small talk. As this still stymied Spock, he was grateful to sit quietly while his brother, his lover, and his father’s new girlfriend carried on a free-flowing conversation about the usefulness of medical apps.

Sarek, seated across from Spock, raised an eyebrow in his direction, and Spock raised one right back. It was difficult to say, but he did not dislike Perrin. In fact, though he had come to the dinner feeling illogically wary, he thought she was actually likely an excellent companion for his father. She was kind, warm, and quietly funny, but there was a reserve to her that Spock had seen in his own father. She paused thoughtfully before she spoke and made careful, consistent eye contact when responding to questions. Her hobbies apparently included reading, with a particular love for substantial and critical biographies, and learning other languages.

“I don’t think they could be better matched if a computer had done it," Jim said, once Sarek and Perrin had taken their leave. It was just the three of them sitting around, each enjoying a beer before calling it a night.

“Not it,” Sybok said, smiling, “though don’t think I didn’t think about putting him up on a dating site a few times.” He sipped his drink. “I considered the same for you, too, dear brother.”

Spock rolled his eyes. “I suppose I will congratulate you, then, on your restraint.”

“Someone should.” Sybok looked across at Jim. “I am glad you’re here, though. Spock has been lonely.”

“Sybok —“

“His mother was a wonderful woman,” Sybok said, and Spock wondered how many drinks he had consumed.

“I’m sorry I never had the chance to meet her," Jim said.

Sybok nodded, leaning forward. “She would have loved you.” Spock’s throat suddenly felt a little tight. He focused on the table, on the lacy white tablecloth trapped beneath the glass top. A small yellow curry stain was visible. “Amanda liked adventure. She was very curious. She definitely would have enjoyed you.”

Jim smiled, and his hand slid onto Spock’s upper arm, a warm, gentle grip. “What about you, Sybok? You have a girlfriend? Boyfriend? Both?”

“My brother is very critical of typical human mating rituals,” Spock said, and Sybok laughed, big and broad and delighted.

“That’s true! But yes, actually, I have been seeing someone, off and on. She lives in Seattle, which is terribly convenient.”

“I do not find Seattle convenient," Spock said.

“Compared to Hong Kong it’s downright local,” Sybok said, which launched them into an unexpectedly worldly discussion of the many women Sybok had dated in the past decade. Spock left dinner feeling dizzy, partly from the beer and partly from the buzzing knowledge of how little he had known about his own brother’s life.

“We should do that again,” Jim said, as they settled into the back of a Lyft. “I mean, the whole thing was fine, but your brother seems like he’d be good company.”

Spock nodded. “I find I regret that we have fallen out of the habit of personal communication.”

“Not too late to get started again,” Jim said. “Plus sometime, I really do want to meet the girlfriend and check out his house. Seattle road trip, maybe?”

“Yes, perhaps,” Spock said. He let Jim’s hand cover his while they rode back to Spock’s apartment, then slipped away before they climbed out of the car. On the ride up to Spock’s apartment, Jim studied him from across the elevator car, and Spock wasn’t sure what merited such inspection. When he met Jim’s eye, though, Jim just half-smiled and looked away, as though engaged in a private thought he did not want to share.

After they walked into the apartment, Spock took a moment to hang up his jacket while Jim went straight for the kitchen. By the time Spock joined him there, he had already found a beer for himself and poured Spock a glass of red from last night’s open bottle. Spock took the glass with some trepidation, wondering if he had missed some strange interaction between Jim and Sybok or some offensive idiosyncracy of his father’s.

“You’re still up for Thanksgiving, right?”

Spock took a sip of the wine. “I have requested the time off.”

“Good,” Jim said, though he nodded with such ferocity that Spock felt he wasn’t actually feeling it was good. “That’s good. Great, actually.”

“Jim?”

He sighed. “So, there are two things I need to tell you before we go.”

This sounded ominous. Spock took a seat at the bar, facing Jim over the counter. He was already calculating the chances (good) that he’d be able to trade into an on-air shift over the holiday. “Yes?”

“OK. The first is — about Sulu’s apartment? Uh, it’s not actually — he and Ben, that’s his husband, they don’t actually own it.”

Spock rolled his eyes. “Do you think I have something against renters? I’m quite aware that my own real estate status is possible only though the luck of my birth.”

Jim laughed. “No. I wouldn’t think that of you. But — speaking of being born lucky, uh, Sulu’s apartment is, actually, mine.”

Spock kept staring at Jim, not sure what this meant. “I thought you did not have a place in New York.”

“I don’t, not really. Not a place I live.” Jim was looking at his beer bottle, his fingernails, the counter — anywhere but Spock. “The apartment is something my dad bought, like, right before I was born, and it came to me in a trust. I was never going to live there, not really, with all the space it has. I tried it, just for a while, but — it’s too much for me. So I basically rent it to them, only we call it a roommate situation for some weird tenant code reason, I guess because it’s under market value.” Now, he looked up and gave Spock a small, quick smile. “Anyway, I know they’re going to joke about me staying there, so I wanted you to know.”

“I see.” It did not make much sense, but Spock had learned enough about Jim’s way of thinking that he could see where Jim had thought it would.

“Good,” Jim said, though he didn’t look relieved. “I just didn’t want you to think I’d lied about that to, like…”

“Trick me into inviting you home under false pretenses?”

The hand wrapped around Jim’s beer pointed loosely at Spock. “Yep. That. Exactly.”

Spock set his wine glass down and leaned forward on his elbows. “I would have invited you home even if you’d had somewhere else to stay,” he said.

“Oh yeah?” Jim stepped closer, leaning on the island. “That night?”

“Or soon thereafter.” He enjoyed the smile on Jim’s face, more because he could see Jim trying to fight it. “And perhaps waiting would have inspired a certain level of anticipation, resulting in an even better encounter once you were here.”

“Hey! I thought that encounter went pretty damn well.”

Spock shrugged, exaggerating his unconcernedness, using the same shoulder roll that Jim so often employed, and leaned back. “I remain unconvinced of the necessity of shower sex as a sub-genre.”

“Well, that’s a challenge I’m happy to accept tomorrow morning,” Jim said, “unless you were about to take a shower.”

“No,” Spock said, “I believe I’m about to hear the second thing you must tell me before Thanksgiving.”

Jim visibly sagged. “Oh, right. Yeah. Well, so, I was talking to Bones yesterday about Thanksgiving — I hope it’s still OK for us to take some dessert — and he was going through the guest list, you know, who’s bringing what, what time, whether —"

“Jim,” Spock prompted, and he nodded.

“Carol’s going to be there.”

“Oh,” Spock said, and then wasn’t sure what else to say. Jim had barely mentioned Carol Marcus since their first morning-after together. It hadn’t been from lack of opportunity; Carol’s departure from the network had been the talk of the newsroom for several weeks, and the recent announcement of how she would fit into another network’s daily talkshow had brought up a fresh wave of interest. Through it all, Jim had remained silent, and though he had been curious, Spock had told himself to trust Jim.

He told himself that now, this trust was going to pay off. “Are you concerned about this?”

“What? No, Carol’s great. I — it’s just — I never really told you what happened with us, and, I think I need to. You deserve to know, actually.”

“You said this was not your story to share.”

He shrugged. “I checked with Carol, too. So it’s fine. But, uh, it’s awkward to start.”

Spock picked up his wine glass again. “Start at the top.”

Jim nodded. “So, Carol and I knew each other from a few academic conferences. She was about two years behind me in the doctoral cohort, so we ran into each other at talks, knew the same people. That kind of thing. Then, when she got the job here, we dated for a few months. Nothing real serious — just fun, mostly, blowing off some steam.”

“I see. This was when she first joined?”

“Yeah, so, five years ago, maybe. We broke up — it was more like we just stopped getting together with any intent behind it. We’d still go out for a drink sometimes, but we weren’t dating. And we stayed in touch.” He rubbed his face with both hands. “Anyway, about three years ago, she tells me she’s been seeing someone, seriously, and they’ve decided they want to start a family.”

Spock nodded. Nothing in the story seemed particularly surprising so far.

“She — her partner had, ah, infertility issues,” he said. “So they needed — they either needed to adopt, or they needed to find someone to donate sperm.”

“Ah," Spock said, and then thought for a moment, and said, “Oh. You — she was asking you?”

“Yeah,” Jim said. “I took a while to think about it, but, eventually, I did it. Or, not ’it’ it, I mean, I donated, and they used it.”

“Carol Marcus’s child is… yours?”

Jim shook his head vigorously. “No. Carol’s kid is Carol’s. Her partner — that’s a really long story, but he basically fucked off to Australia and he was out of the picture by the time David was born. I’m — I’m, maybe, if I play my cards right, going to get to take the kid to museums someday and buy him ice cream around his birthday, but — I’m not his dad.” Jim sighed. “It’s weird. He looks kind of like me, and I know my mom would get a huge kick out of that, but I can’t tell her. I can’t really tell anyone. That was something we agreed on, up front, that until David’s older, I wouldn’t legally or publicly claim paternity.”

Spock frowned. “Why?”

“Why — which part?”

“Why the secrecy about his parentage?”

Jim shrugged. “It was something Carol asked for at the time. She’s had — her path through the network hasn’t been an easy one. She had to fight her dad’s reputation in school — he held the endowed chair for environmental sciences, big climate change denier, pretty much a globally known asshole — and then at FWN, I mean, you know. The politics of it all are twice as bad for women.” He sighed. “And I said fine because, really, when it comes right down to it, when she asked, I wasn’t in a place to consider being a father, and she wasn’t asking me to be one.”

He paused to take a long sip from his beer, and Spock studied him. What would that conversation have been like? he wondered. He tried to imagine one of his own past partners, like T’Pring or Nyota, asking him a similar question, and he simply could not.

“After Aaron — that was her partner — after he left, I asked Carol, I said I was ready to try being there for them both, but she, well, Carol’s pretty smart. She saw right through that bullshit, and she didn’t want it. ‘Our agreement stands,' she said.” Jim paused, his fingers drumming briefly against the counter. “I — David, he’s great. He’s really, he’s — amazing, and I’ve loved watching him grow, and I’m grateful just about every day that he has a mom who is totally on top of raising him, because I don’t think I could do half as well. At least, not right now.”

When Jim looked up, Spock could see that he was expecting Spock to have some negative reaction, some judgement. Instead, Spock nodded, and reached out to Jim, clasping his wrist. “I am eager to meet him.”

“Yeah?”

“Of course. It seems like you made a reasonable and generous decision.” Jim shook his head, smiling, and Spock said, “Who else knows about this?”

“I think everyone on the team has a pretty clear idea," Jim said. “Carol traveled with us a little around the time I was making up my mind about this, and they’re not stupid. Bones knows, of course.”

Spock nodded. “Should I — will Carol know that I know?”

“Yeah, I told her I’d tell you. I think — don’t be freaked out, but I think she’s really interested in meeting you.”

“We have met many times before,” Spock said. “She worked only forty feet from my desk.”

“Sure, but that’s work. She’s never met you socially before, or as my, ah, what are we going with, anyway? Boyfriend? Partner?”

“I have no preference.”

“Huh. I’ll think about it.” His smile, now, was more gentle, more intimate. “Thanks, by the way.”

“For what?”

“Not freaking out?”

“Have you known me to ‘freak out’ much in our history?”

Jim set his glass into the sink. “Nah,” he said, “but first time for everything, and the secret kid conversation really seems like the time.”

“I would say you should keep trying,” Spock said, rising, “but I know you would take that as a literal challenge, so — please consider this as close to freaking out as you will see me. Now, I desire physical comfort as a way to tame the, ah, uncontrolled emotion —“

“Shut up, you’re definitely getting laid tonight,” Jim said, laughing, and then followed him back to bed.


	14. Chapter 14

The next week went smoothly, and Spock found that even as he better integrated the information about Carol Marcus into his picture of Jim, his opinion of the situation did not change. He was tempted, briefly, to share what he had learned with Nyota, out of a desire to correct her own picture of what had happened between Carol and Jim, but out of consideration for Carol’s desire for privacy, he refrained. This, he found, was his only lingering question: why had she decided to let rumors abound about her relationship to Jim if she was also forcing his silence on the truth? He couldn’t think of the right way to ask Jim this, and he realized it was because he was less interested in Jim’s answer than Carol’s.

It was with this question in mind that he approached the Thanksgiving gathering of Jim’s team.

The Sulus lived in a stately and fashionable building in the Lincoln Square area which made Spock reassess his knowledge of Jim’s father’s wealth. The building had a doorman and, wonder of all wonders, an elevator operator. Jim greeted the man familiarly, handing him an envelope as they left the lift on Sulu’s floor “to help you celebrate the holiday when you get off work.” The ease of the transaction marked the first time Spock had seen Jim acting like the son of fame and fortune that he really was, which was interesting and, he decided, worthy of further, later consideration.

They followed the sounds of McCoy’s drawl to an apartment on the right of the elevator: 4C.The space inside was lovely: full of original woodwork and hardwood flooring, open archways and bright natural light, and it made Spock instantly curious about how far under market value Jim must have been making the rent. They walked into a small foyer, awash in the smells of cooking food and the sounds of chatting adults. To the right was a door leading down a short hall to the kitchen, where they left their boxed pies.

Returning to the foyer, they walked straight into the apartment. A small dining room, separated by open archways to the hall and the living space, was set up with a table to hold food, allowing just enough space for people to circle around. Further on was the living room proper, a wide room currently accommodating two tables pushed together in the center and a hodgepodge of dining and desk chairs around it. At one end of the room, a sectional sofa had been taken apart to allow a little seating despite the scrambled setup. At the other, a pile of toys had been pushed into a corner. Wood floors stretched throughout, leading to doors on either side that must have led to at least two bedrooms and a bath. Most dramatic, though, were the high, wood-cased windows, rising almost to the unusually high ceilings. The entire room was bathed in early winter sunlight.

They had paused at the threshold to the living room, the dining room just behind them to the right. “So this is it,” Jim murmured, and Spock nodded, not sure what to say. This was a beautiful apartment, probably worth at least two million dollars, easily, and yet Spock could see what Jim had meant: this was a place where a family settled down, not exactly a pad for a peripatetic young television star.

“Ah, finally. I’ve had to drink practically alone,” McCoy said, appearing at Jim’s elbow. He handed Jim a glass and then looked at Spock through narrowed eyes. “No, don’t start, I’ve got just the thing.”

Spock watched him retreat to a bar cart in the dining room, where he began surveying bottles with dismaying enthusiasm. Jim’s drink was amber and served in a martini glass, and he took a thoughtful sip. “It’s good," he said, and McCoy grunted his acknowledgement.

Across the room, Sulu was sitting by Carol Marcus, holding up a squirming, small child. Chapel sat in a shorter sofa, next to Scott, who was speaking animatedly. Spock felt a brief wave of longing for his own team. They were spending the holidays elsewhere, though. Nyota was visiting family, and Stonn and T’Pring had eagerly volunteered to take over when Spock had canceled his own workday.

“Hey, guys,” Jim called, nodding to the group at large.

“Jim, Spock, hey, glad you made it," Sulu said. He turned the baby in his arms so that he now faced them. “I think David is, too, aren’t you, pal? Say hi.”

Carol laughed. “Just because yours was a prodigy doesn’t mean mine is, Hikaru.” She reached over and swept the child off of Sulu’s lap and into her own. Spock had not seen her since she’d left the network, and she didn’t look much different: her blonde hair had been trimmed a bit shorter, more businesslike, he thought, with gentle waving curls throughout. Carol was striking more than conventionally telegenic, a description Spock had heard of himself. Now, sitting comfortably with friends and her child, she looked both beautiful and commanding, her sharp blue eyes softened by crinkles at the edges when she smiled at the baby.

Spock looked away, not really sure where to focus. He was further confused when Jim said, “OK, gimme,” and set his drink down on one of the tables before walking across the room to pick up the child.

“Hey, there’s my favorite little man,” he said, hoisting the child over his head. David giggled and kicked his feet. His hair was blonde with light curls, like Carol’s, but the color was slightly darker. Spock thought, _Like Jim’s_ , and then looked away again. “Whatever Sulu’s been telling you, don’t believe it.”

McCoy approached with a drink for Spock then, and he stayed put at the edge of the living room, not sure whether to follow Jim or not. He took the drink McCoy handed him without studying it. Jim was making faces at David, their noses inches apart. Spock only realized he was staring when McCoy cleared his throat, and then he looked away from Jim and David to focus on McCoy. “It’s an Old Fashioned,” he said, gesturing to the yellowish drink, “but with a bit of an upgrade for you.”

Spock raised an eyebrow as he said, “Thank you, doctor.”

McCoy stood at his side, staring over at Jim and David. Carol and Jim had begun to chat quietly, while Sulu had become involved in Chapel and Scott’s discussion. “Cute kid,” McCoy offered.

“Indeed.” Spock took a sip of his drink, which was bubbly and very sweet. “I do not have much experience with small children.”

“No kidding,” McCoy said, apparently unsurprised. “Hey, Jim said you have a brother. He much like you?”

“No,” Spock said, and then thought about it. “And yes. Sybok is… unconventional.”

“Hmm. Well, you’re not exactly a bastion of traditional human behavior yourself.” He grinned. “You ever wonder if maybe you’re from another planet?”

“Never more than at this moment,” Spock said, and McCoy laughed. “How old is your daughter?”

“Ten going on thirty,” McCoy said. “She texted me a while ago. She’s with her mom’s family for the holiday, and they do the whole big show for Thanksgiving, so Jo’s bored to death.”

The drink was just sweet enough that Spock knew he was drinking it too fast. However, Jim had moved the child to his side, handling him with a comfortable ease that Spock couldn’t completely understand. The drink seemed necessary. “I’m sorry to hear that,” he told McCoy.

“Nah. It’s good for kids to be bored every now and then.” Across the room, Jim laughed, and Spock took another sip of his drink. “So, did you know Carol would be here?”

“I was informed a few days ago,” Spock said.

“Wow, Jim’s an asshole," McCoy murmured. “News flash, I guess.” He glanced over. “I’ll make you another one of those if you promise to behave.”

“Such a promise would be illogical,” Spock said, handing McCoy his empty glass, “as I believe my standards for public behavior while intoxicated far exceed yours, but I do so promise.”

“Great. Go be social, and I’ll bring it to you.”

So Spock squared his shoulders and walked to the other end of the room, where Chapel greeted him with a wave. “Shouldn’t you be on air today?” she asked.

“I was asked not to be.”

Chapel’s mouth formed a perfect “o” of surprise. “By whom? The network?”

“No. By Jim.”

“Oh,” she said, and then grinned. “Ohhhh. Holidays. Sounds serious.”

Scott nudged his leg with his elbow. “Ah, don’t take her too seriously. She’s just bummed that Stonn isn’t here.”

Spock blinked. “Really?”

Chapel appeared to briefly blush. “He’s funny," she said. “But, Jesus, Scotty, shut up. I said he was entertaining, I didn’t say I was going to propose.”

“First comes fun, then comes marriage,” Scott said.

Spock ventured a look up. Jim had handed David back to Carol, who was nursing him while she and Jim talked. It surprised Spock when he felt a hot, instant spike of jealousy, observing the casual comfort between the two of them. He returned his attention to Chapel and Scott and saw Chapel raise an eyebrow.

“Stonn is currently unattached,” he said, hoping to smooth over his obvious inattention.

“Huh. You’re sure? I always thought he and T’Pring had a thing going,” Scott said.

Spock knew, in fact, that they did have “a thing” going from time to time, but this was a time in which they were not sexually or romantically involved. “Not at present,” he said.

“Interesting,” Chapel said. “Well, maybe I’ll see him next week, at the company party?”

“Aw, Christ, I forgot about that,” Scott said.

“Would that it were so easy,” Spock murmured.

“Every year, I swear I’ll skip it, but it’s the one time we’re guaranteed to be in town,” Chapel said.

McCoy walked over with two drinks, one of which he kept, and one which he handed to Spock. “What’s guaranteed?”

“Being in town for the network holiday party,” Chapel said. “Last year, they pulled us out of polar vortex reporting to come in for that.”

McCoy snorted. “I was grateful for that, honestly. It’s not a great party, I’ll grant you that, but at least Komack doesn’t skimp on the booze or catering.”

The Federation Weather Network Holiday Party was, in fact, the one social engagement all year that even Spock felt obligated to attend. The network paid for coverage for all of the evening shows and usually rented out an impressive restaurant or other entertainment space in order to allow everyone several hours of food, drinks, and mingling. They all had to suffer though at least one speech each by the Komacks and, often, several brief remarks by the board, but Spock had managed to have an acceptably enjoyable time the last few years. He wondered what this year would be like, with Jim in attendance, and then made himself not think about it.

With McCoy added to the group, conversation with Chapel and Scott became a bit easier, and they chatted amiably until Sulu rose to help with final dinner preparations. Everyone else began to wander toward the table, as well, which meant that Jim appeared by Spock’s side.

“Having fun?” he asked, quietly, his hand at Spock’s bent elbow.

“Yes,” Spock said. “You?”

“Mm-hm. Sit by me, will you? I promise I’ll behave.”

Spock looked over, allowing Jim a tolerant smile. “I would celebrate even the attempt.”

Dinner was lovely. Ben, Sulu’s husband, had done a remarkable job on the turkey (from what Spock heard) and had also taken the time to provide a vegetarian casserole for Spock. The vegetables and side dishes were also delicious, and Spock barely had room for the pies he and Jim had brought (which Spock had ordered in advance from a trusted local bakery, on Rand’s recommendation). After dinner, some of the adults challenged the Sulus’ daughter to a board game, while others lingered near the dining room, sipping after-dinner brandy. Spock was among the latter, sitting on a padded bench and listening to McCoy wax lyrical over bourbon aging techniques, when the seat dipped next to him.

“So, hello.” Carol Marcus sat beside him, sipping what appeared to be a cup of steaming tea. Spock tried to keep his face neutral. “Long time no see.”

“Indeed. I believe we spoke last the day before you left on maternity leave.”

She smiled. “You have an excellent memory.” Spock nodded. Around them, the small dining room had briefly emptied: McCoy had been called to consult on the rules of the game, and Chapel had taken a call from her family to the hallway. He suspected Carol had timed her arrival to match with this near-privacy. “Jim says you like direct. Is that true?”

“I do prefer honesty, yes,” he said, though the question gave him pause. From where he sat, he could see only the corner of the game table, where Jim was on a team with Scott. There was no chance of catching his eye.

Carol nodded, taking another thoughtful sip, before turning with one leg bent so that she faced him and could, likely, see if anyone else was coming near. “Then let me tell you, in all honesty, that what you’re worried about isn’t the truth.” Spock raised an eyebrow. “I’ve slept with Jim Kirk, but, god willing, I never plan to do so again.”

“That is… bolstering,” Spock said, “though, if I may be equally direct, that was not my concern or my main question.”

She smiled, slowly, her face lighting up and her eyes widening with what appeared to be suppressed, surprised laughter. “You are straight into it, aren’t you? Good. Can I try to guess your question?”

“If you’d like.”

“OK. First guess: You want to know why everyone thinks we had some sordid affair, if we didn’t?” Spock nodded, a bit surprised that she had guessed it so quickly. Then again, Carol had always been extremely quick. “Well — FWN is a great employer in some ways, but in its maternity offerings it’s pretty terrible. After I told my supervisor that I would need time off because I was pregnant, he acted like I’d asked for something completely foreign or unheard of. Then, about two days later, he called me in, made me promise I wasn’t about to sue the company for any kind of harassment, and granted my request.” She frowned. “He assumed that Jim and I had been together, had an affair, and that was why my fiancé had left. The network was giving me time off to cover its ass. I told Jim, and he said to just let it play out. I — I haven’t ever felt right about it, but he was right: the rumor helped me with management, and it hasn’t hurt him.”

Spock thought about Nyota’s initial disdain and continuing distrust of Jim, about Karen’s smirking declaration that Carol would be leaving the network, and he thought her calculations were not completely correct. However, at least now he understood them. “Thank you for sharing that with me,” he said.

“Least I can do.” Her hand rested briefly on his arm. “He’s — he seems happy.”

“I hope so,” Spock said, wishing he really could catch Jim’s eye at this moment.

“That’s good,” she said. “He’s a special guy. Not right for me, but — it makes me feel better to think that he is right for someone.”

Spock nodded, slowly. They sat briefly in silence before Spock remembered to ask about and compliment David, and they were in the middle of a long recitation on his curiosity about cats when McCoy reappeared. The rest of the afternoon and early evening were spent in conversation and games and drinks. As they left, Spock thought it was likely the longest he had gone without watching any FWN in several years.

“Yeah, except for when I’m sleeping, and even then I think I dream about reporting some nights,” Jim said when Spock mentioned this. They were already in their cab back home, an indecent amount of leftovers in a bag at their feet. Jim looked over. “You and Carol looked pretty serious.”

“Yes,” Spock agreed.

“You talk about anything that, uh, I might be interested in?”

Spock rolled his eyes. “No, Jim, we talked about our shared love of salad greens and early mornings. We of course actually discussed you.”

“And?”

Spock smiled, now. “Yes? You had another question?”

“You’re such a dick. What’d you say?”

He watched Jim’s hands rub nervously over his own thighs and wondered what possible worst-case scenarios he was picturing. “I requested clarification about one point in your arrangement and was reassured that my initial supposition was correct.”

Jim sighed so forcefully it sounded like a groan. “Could you be more vague?”

“Certainly: we discussed things.”

“Spock!”

Spock gave in and laughed, gently, as Jim poked him in the leg. “I wondered why she let the fiction of a badly-ended relationship promulgate. She explained.”

“Ah. To your satisfaction?”

“Close enough,” Spock said. He turned more fully, then, and looked Jim in the eye. He wanted to tell him it was OK to guard his reputation, that even though it shouldn’t matter what people thought of him, Spock knew that it often felt differently. More than that, he wanted Jim to know what Spock thought of him, and how much, and how often. He put his hands on either side of Jim’s face, cradling it, and then kissed him, at first gently and then with more feeling, taking his time, watching Jim’s eyes slide closed. “Thank you for taking me along, today.”

“That was gratitude?” Jim said, kissing the edge of Spock’s jaw. “Seriously, you can come to every party with me forever.”

“I believe I would enjoy that,” Spock said, and he felt Jim smile against his neck. “For now, perhaps we can move this particular celebration inside.”

“Let’s.”

* * *

Sybok called the next day to wish him a happy belated Thanksgiving and to let him know that the final date had been set for his company to go public, just after the start of the new year, though the announcement would go out officially in the next week. Though he employed what he claimed was “an offensive number of PR people,” his name and information would doubtlessly be part of the story in the next few days. “Unless you want me to scrub you from the Internet — “

“I believe that would harm my professional prospects, aside from the potential legal ramifications,” Spock said. “So no thank you.”

“Good thing. Not sure I have the time to do it properly. If anyone harasses you too much, though, give me a call.”

“Of course.”

Spock really didn’t expect anyone to connect Sybok to him in a meaningful way. Perhaps his name would pop up in a particularly thorough profile, but he would be an aside, he assumed. He mentioned this to Jim over lunch one afternoon, two days before the network holiday party.

“Hmm,” Jim said, suddenly concentrating closely on the few remaining bites in his sandwich. “Well, I hope that’s how it goes.”

“You do not think so?”

He shrugged, dragging the edge of the sandwich through a fallen glob of mustard. They had decided to stop for lunch at a small deli a few blocks from work before either of them was due for the day. Spock had enjoyed a curried egg salad sandwich on sturdy wheat bread, while Jim seemed to be eating three kinds of meat on a bright white hoagie roll. They were both quite happy.

“I am not an interesting part of this story," Spock said. “I didn’t even know the company was successful until recently.”

“That, actually, is pretty interesting,” Jim said. He set the sandwich down and took a drink of iced tea. “Think like a journalist for a minute, OK? The story should be about the nuts and bolts: the company’s bottom line, the prospect for the future, all of that. But we’re talking stock markets, which are maybe the only thing that makes our forecasting look easy and predictable. So it’s all of this psychology. Who’s the guy running the show? What’s he like? What’s his plan? That all seems important.”

Spock took a bite of his tabbouleh, considering. It made some sense, but he couldn’t understand how it bounced back to him. “I cannot shed any light on his business plan.”

“No, but within 12 hours, everyone’s gonna have that,” he said. He spread his hands and raised his eyebrows, as if to say, _as you well know_. “So they’ll be looking for the next big thing, the next story they can tell. Technology is still basically magic to most people, but relationships, drama — that’s interesting. That’s what people tune in for.”

Spock sighed. This was his least favorite part of being involved in television: everything came down to entertainment. “So you believe I will be a target for some journalistic interest.”

“I don’t think they’re gonna stalk you or anything, but I expect you’ll get some calls.” He nudged Spock’s foot under the table. “Don’t scowl. You’ll be fine. I’ve been through this before, all right? Give them enough to get them on their way, and you get a little good will and a lot of peace and quiet.”

“Oh,” Spock said, and Jim smiled in a way that was quiet and not happy. “I hadn’t thought about your — experiences in this light.”

He nodded, eyes somewhere past Spock. “The holidays get a little weird, sometimes,” he said. “One of the cable networks did a marathon a few years ago to mark the release date anniversary. They cut in these clips from weather reports I’d done at different places — it was, ah, different.” He rubbed his face. “They got Mom to tape a little segment for it, I guess, and I got a few calls. Came pretty close to taking Terry Gross up on an interview offer, but — I just don’t want that to be my life.” Jim sat up and picked up their receipt, studying it as though he’d ever cared how much his sandwich had originally cost.

It was now Spock’s turn to reach out to Jim, which he did by quietly resting his fingers over Jim’s wrist. Jim nodded.

His quiet mood lifted as they walked to work, which Spock had agreed to only grudgingly. “You take cars everywhere," Jim said, shaking his head. Around them, the temperature hovered in the low thirties, adding both a sense of determined urgency and several inches of padding to the crowds on the sidewalk. “For someone who studies nature, you seem to have an aversion to experiencing it.”

“I study natural phenomena,” Spock said, “none of which are best witnessed from the center of an over-populated concrete ocean.”

“But the energy! The crowds, the store windows, the sounds, the smells!” Jim was grinning widely, hands gesturing around them. “New York! Come on, you haven’t lived here so much longer than I have. You must still get excited about it.”

Spock shrugged. The city itself had never been a desired location for him. He had, instead, come here because his work had required it. It surprised him, sometimes, that he had managed to stay in New York for a decade, which meant it was the city in which he had lived longest. Before his mother’s death, he had always assumed that he would, eventually, settle on the West Coast, near where her extended family lived and where he had assumed she would want to retire.

Jim’s enthusiasm for the city, though, was mildly infectious. Right then, they were just anonymous enough in the workday crowds, two men bundled into their heavy jackets among a sea of other suited, head-down travelers, that Spock could tuck his hand against Jim’s arm when he leaned in to speak with him. “It has its charms," he said, and Jim grinned.


	15. Chapter 15

The FWN holiday party was a true throwback to an older style of network. This, of course, made no sense, as there had been no old television networks broadcasting only the weather before FWN. Admiral Komack had never been one to be swayed by logic in the pursuit of nostalgia, however, and so the company party had become an incongruous fixture of the end-of-year calendar. They planned it for an evening when most of the broadcast time would be covered by scripted shows and brought in crews from the main network to cover the behind-the-scenes management. The FBN weather reporters were also on standby, should any live news need to be reported, which left everyone available for the yes-absolutely-mandatory banquet and the much-less-mandatory (and often more fun) party afterward.

The banquet was black tie, while costumes were encouraged at the party. This led to some strange combinations, as a few people arrived in formal dress that hinted at informal dress yet to come. Chapel had purple streaked through her hair; Stonn wore what appeared to be eyeliner. Spock, himself, had no visible sign of his upcoming costume as he entered the rented ballroom, though he had left a wardrobe bag in his hotel room just beforehand. In fact, a block of rooms had been reserved for the use of those attending the parties as dressing rooms; Spock had chosen to reserve his own room for the evening against the possibility of imbibing too much at the costume party — or of the same fate perhaps befalling Jim.

He took his seat at a table near the front, where the name tags determined he would be surrounded by his own crew and staff. Jim and McCoy were two tables over, a distance from the stage that didn’t quite befit Jim’s rank in the network but did provide easier access to the open bar. Spock wondered when that had been engineered.

The top network brass, including both Komacks, would attend the dinner and then, briefly and almost ceremonially, the afterparty. Though they would mingle briefly with the rest of the company, their main roles were to offer remarks during dinner and to make the members of the Board of Directors feel welcome. Spock had skipped the usual pre-dinner cocktail mingle mostly to avoid having an extended conversation with Karen.

He had also chosen to opt out of the cocktail hour because he and Jim had again, briefly, discussed whether it was wise to alert the network officially to their relationship and again decided, together, in the negative. Spock thought this was a sound decision, but he also wasn’t sure that the combination of drinks and formal dress that the evening provided would make it easy for him to conceal his attraction to Jim. This would likely be less of a problem at the afterparty, where flirting was rampant, but it provided a neat excuse to remove himself from the awkward early social hour.

As he glanced around and saw Jim leaning casually against the bar, chatting with McCoy and Chapel, Spock knew he had made the right decision. Jim Kirk in a tuxedo was a sight Spock had never really seen. The suit fit him gracefully, in a way that spoke of good tailoring and attention to detail but also of the incredibly fit body beneath the clothes. For a moment, Spock was transported back to the ease with which Jim had moved through his expensive co-op building, and he was reminded that Jim was really a man of inherited fortune from a famous, Hollywood family. In his tux, he looked torn from the poster for a spy movie or a high-budget romantic comedy.

Spock forced himself to look away before Jim could catch him staring. After all, they were trying to fly under the radar tonight. Luckily, that did not mean he couldn’t spend the boring hour of dinner trying to imagine what it might feel like to take Jim out of that tuxedo, or what Jim would look like once he changed into his Arctic Minimum Ice costume again. Spock concentrated his gaze instead on his wine glass, which soon needed a refill, but let his mind wander.

Once dinner was completed, Spock stood, with his table, to offer those on the stage lukewarm, required applause. Nyota grinned up at him. “Do you even have to change?” she asked.

“In fact, yes,” he said. “You?”

She nodded. “You need any help?”

“Thank you, but I believe T’Pring will be able to assist me.”

They had come up with the idea between takes a few weeks ago. Several of the crew members had been watching their phones, expecting news of a royal baby, and Spock had been taking issue with T’Pring's evaluation of the GFS predictions. “I understand your criticisms, as always, but I think on balance the model continues to function within the expected deviation.”

“Your model, however, has been more accurate, more often,” T’Pring said, shuffling her papers together. They were co-anchoring from the desk that evening, to emphasize the importance of preparing for the incoming storm system.

“I appreciate that vote of confidence,” Spock said, “but as I’ve said before, I think it prudent we not be too eager to throw aside an internationally recognized system until we have a year of successful tests completed.”

“Is that the royal ‘we’?”

Spock raised an eyebrow. “We are honored by the comparison.”

“Uh, excuse me, your majesties, but if you could pipe down for just a second, we need to complete these sound checks without your tired arguments,” Stonn said over the microphone.

Spock and T’Pring had paused until the tests were complete, speaking only when required. When Stonn cleared them to speak, T’Pring had glanced at him and said, “I believe you would cut a striking figure in a tiara.”

“And I believe you are precisely as annoying as Prince Philip is generally regarded to be,” Spock had replied, and she had smiled.

“Let us hope we have seventy years of bickering ahead of us, then.”

From there, the costume had been a natural progression, which is how Spock found himself trying to tug on a shimmering green ballgown in his room shortly after dinner had ended. T’Pring had provided the garment, which she claimed to have “no idea” how she had come to own. Lucky for Spock, everyone had agreed that the Queen was not particularly busty nor likely to display any décolletage, so at least he didn’t have to wrestle with any challenging undergarments and could enjoy a high neckline. As long as he wore a sash and a crown, he would be royal enough.

The stockings, though, had been more difficult than two-thirds of his graduate courses.

He did finally get them on, not helped along any by the lack of coordination that three glasses of wine had inspired, but then he reached the stage where outside intervention would be necessary. The dress had a long zipper in the back that was accessible, apparently, only by detaching one’s own arms. T’Pring was supposed to be getting into her full Prince Consort costume in a room she was sharing with Nyota down the hall, so Spock walked out to look for her.

Many of the staff from their network had taken rooms on the same floor, which meant he immediately saw several familiar faces. One was more familiar than the rest.

“Oh, wow,” Jim said, his amused smile lighting up his entire face as he looked Spock over. “Ah, should I curtesy, or…?”

“At least you are dressed with appropriate respect,” Spock said, glad to see him still in his tuxedo.

Jim patted the backpack he was carrying. “Just you wait. You need help with the zipper?”

“Please.”

They walked back into Spock’s room with the barest glance up and down the hall; no one appeared to be watching. Inside, Spock turned his back to allow Jim access to the zipper. He heard Jim set down his bag on the nearest bed, then felt his hands rest at the bare nape of his neck, followed a moment later by his mouth. “Not that I don’t dig this,” he murmured against Spock’s skin, his hands sliding down to his waist, “but I gotta admit I had some long thoughts about peeling you out of your tux earlier.”

“Great minds,” Spock said, reaching back to rub his fingers over the shoulder of Jim’s jacket. Through the wall, he heard Nyota’s laugh, too close and clear. As one of Jim’s hands wandered beneath the back of the dress, Spock pushed backwards against him. “Do you own that tux, and, if so, would you be willing to wear it at home sometime soon?”

“Yes, and abso-fucking-lutely,” Jim said. He turned Spock around and backed him up until they were against the nearest wall.

Spock grinned against Jim’s mouth. “I didn’t take you for an anglophile.”

“I really want to make a joke about taking you,” Jim said, “but it wouldn’t be a joke.”

Spock wrapped his arms around Jim’s shoulders and back, pulling him close enough to grind against. The skirt of the ridiculous dress crushed between them, and Spock wondered how many apologies he would owe T’Pring. He was going to have it professionally cleaned, no matter what. Maybe, in the darkness of the bar, she would never notice. Jim’s jacket hit the floor, and Spock spent half his concentration on Jim’s buttons, the other half on chasing his mouth. Jim’s hand slid up his skirt, over the smooth stockings until —

“Oh my fucking god,” he said on a groan, fingering the garters. “Oh, baby. Jesus. This is, honest to god, not my kink, but — ”

“But maybe it is tonight,” Spock finished, watching Jim’s face flush.

“I’m not gonna be able to look at you without getting a hard-on all night.”

“Perfect,” Spock said, sliding his hand down Jim’s front, and then they were going again.

When McCoy knocked on the door, Spock had managed to get Jim’s fly down and his hand inside, and Jim had successfully undone all of Spock’s work on the stockings. “I am going to come back in exactly four minutes,” McCoy yelled through the locked door, “and I’d better see nothing more exciting than Jim’s stupid-ass costume when I do.”

“Make it ten,” Spock called back, and heard multiple voices laugh from outside.

“Sounds like confirmation,” Jim said, and then he leaned Spock down into the bed.

By the time McCoy returned, which was 14 minutes later by Spock’s count, Spock was back in his dress, sitting calmly at the desk, and putting on the lipstick he’d been loaned. Jim was in the bathroom, pulling on his costume. The room smelled of sweat, certainly, and the bed was rumpled, but they hadn’t had time to unmake it. Spock thought it more likely that McCoy would notice the strong scent of powdered foundation than anything else.

He also hoped McCoy wouldn’t require him to move for a few more minutes; his legs were still trembling.

“I am not saying anything,” McCoy said.

Spock refrained from pointing out the hypocrisy in that statement.

He had also brought in a costume, which apparently only required that he change his regular suit jacket for a white one and then fuss with his hair for a while. “I’m James Bond," he said, straightening a cuff.

“I’m glad you think so,” Spock said, and got a snarl for his trouble. He returned to putting on glimmering green eye shadow, raising his eyes only when he saw Jim emerge.

“Oh, for the love of god," McCoy said. “That’s actually worse.”

“What? You said I had to wear clothes under it.” Jim wore the same small white skirt with cotton balls that he’d shown Spock over video not so long ago. However, now, he also wore a skin-tight bright blue long-sleeved shirt and matching running tights.

“Ah, the Arctic Ocean,” Spock said, staring at Jim’s reflection.

“See, Spock likes it,” Jim said.

“Spock is basically getting personalized porn for the evening, so no wonder,” McCoy said.

Jim grinned, and Spock knew he was blushing. The tight clothing hid at least one mouth-shaped bruise on Jim’s shoulder, where Spock had stifled his own final cry; he’d wondered how Jim would hide anything else wearing so little. He was surprised, too, at his own reaction: surprised that he had let himself lose control so completely here, surrounded by colleagues in what was essentially a work space, and surprised that it had only made him want to be closer to Jim for the rest of the night.

“You look very regal,” Jim said, suddenly standing right behind him. He leaned down so that their faces were even in the mirror, and his smile turned wicked for just a moment as his hand chastely fastened Spock’s zipper.

“You look very cold," Spock said, glad that his voice stayed steady. Jim let his fingers rub against the back of Spock’s neck for just a moment, then drew back.

“I’ll let you finish up,” he said, and disappeared to bother McCoy.

Emerging from his room a few moments later, Nyota’s giggle and T’Pring’s rolled eyes told him that they hadn’t been nearly as quiet as Spock had hoped. “Oh, don’t worry, I doubt anyone else could hear anything,” Nyota said. “Most people aren’t on this floor.”

Spock felt both relieved and embarrassed, still almost unable to believe he had engaged in such inappropriate behavior at a work-related event. When Jim whispered, “Hands off, the rest of the night, I promise,” before kissing his cheek in parting, Spock almost sighed.

“I’ve never been so excited about climate change,” Nyota said, watching Jim walk away, and Spock silently agreed.

This, of course, was the highlight of the entire party. The next two hours stretched out as a costumed denouement. Spock did find a drink and, after being dragged into one too many awkward dance numbers with his team, a quiet place to stand at the very end of the bar. From that vantage point, he could observe his colleagues with few interruptions. Jim stayed mostly at the other end of the room, having secured a table at the corner of the dance floor for himself and his closest crew. Spock wished to be there, but he did not trust himself to join the group and not, immediately, climb into Jim’s lap. It was a heady feeling, the rush of affection and, he could admit it, lust that he felt. It came from wanting Jim and feeling very wanted in return.

“Your majesty,” Harrison’s voice rumbled as he leaned against the bar next to Spock.

Harrison had not dressed up in costume, though he appeared to be wearing an ill-fitting, slightly triangular hat. He tipped it as Spock stared. “Remnant of an embarrassing Arthur Conan Doyle phase in my youth, I’m afraid. Best I could do on short notice.”

“The party has been scheduled for months,” Spock said.

Harrison shrugged, holding up a hand to call for the bartender. “But I didn’t decide to care until very recently. Your best scotch, neat, and another of whatever Her Royal Highness is having.” The bartender turned to make their drinks. Spock’s current drink had nearly half its contents left, and the drinks were free that night, which made Harrison’s flirtatious order particularly unnecessary. He did at least tip generously. “Enjoying the party?” he asked, turning his back to the bartender and apparently surveying the party beyond.

“As expected,” Spock said. He had carefully angled himself so that Jim wasn’t in his line of sight, and he was glad. He could usually keep a straight face around Harrison without much effort, but that night, he felt like everything was showing on his face.

“I was a bit surprised to learn you’d be here,” Harrison murmured. “Doesn’t quite seem like your natural habitat. Though I do understand your reasons for wanting to attend.”

“Attendance is mandatory,” Spock said, finishing his current drink with a swift gulp.

“But enjoying yourself in the hotel suites is optional,” Harrison said, smirking. He turned to collect his drink from the bartender.

For a moment, Spock felt a sick wash of horror at the idea that somehow John Harrison had overheard him with Jim after the banquet. Then cooler reason prevailed; Nyota would have certainly mentioned if she’d seen Harrison near their room or floor, and their own friends would not have spread that particular piece of gossip. Before he could start to wonder what Harrison might have meant, the man clarified.

“That is an offer, by the way,” he said, with the same smirk, and handed over Spock’s new drink.

Spock nodded, trying to look thoughtful even while he felt horrified. Harrison’s fingers lingered against his own in the exchange of glasses. “I regret that I am otherwise engaged this evening,” he said, struggling not to sound too stiff.

“Do you?” Harrison asked, and before Spock could clarify, he watched the smirk turn into something closer to a grin. “Well, it’s a standing offer, should your other engagements be… less than what you’re looking for.” He straightened up, holding his fresh drink in one elegant hand. He waved across the room with his other, and Spock saw Karen Komack return the gesture, beaming at them both.

“She likes you quite a lot, doesn’t she?”

Spock stayed very still. “Our professional interests have often aligned.”

“You mean that you hate her father, so you tolerate her delusions of grand management?” Harrison’s smile faded to a much more natural-looking smirk. “It’s not a bad strategy for survival.”

“I believe she also thinks highly of you,” Spock said, and Harrison nodded.

“We have had a long and fruitful business relationship,” he said. “Went to school together, actually.”

Spock raised an eyebrow. “Wharton?”

“Oxford. She did an exchange. Through the years, you might say, the Komacks have become something of a second family.”

That explained a bit, Spock thought, including why Admiral Komack had so swiftly elevated Harrison after his hiring. It also explained Harrison’s strangely critical loyalty to Karen. “I see.”

“A word of friendly advice?” Harrison said, eyes still focused across the party. Spock inclined his head to imply his interest. “I’ve never been completely upfront with Karen about my own involvements, but she is at least clear on my type, so to speak.”

Spock took a slow breath before responding. “My type is perhaps not so well defined as yours.”

“Indeed,” Harrison said, giving him an evaluative and appreciative once-over, “you do have a reputation for being, shall we say, adaptable.” He took a sip from his glass, looking back out over the crowd. “Be that as it may, whether or not you’re serious with Kirk, you might do well to let Karen think you’re engaged with someone closer to her circle. She has ruined careers over secrets much less, shall we say, personally disappointing than yours.” He drew his drink glass close to his own chest and tapped it there, just once. One of his hands slid across the full expanse of Spock’s shoulders, his fingers briefly dragging over bare skin near the nape of his neck. “I believe you know I have a suggestion for who might fill that role.”

Harrison had moved even closer. Spock could smell the smoky aroma of his drink, but he had no sign that Harrison was anything but completely sober. His own head swam a bit, after an evening of casual drinking. Perhaps that was Harrison’s plan, here: to come on strong when Spock’s lowered inhibitions raised his chances of success.

It was an entirely stupid plan, and yet, Spock could see no immediate way of escape. Harrison wasn’t his boss, per se, but Karen was. A scene between them here would do him no favors. Instead, he simply leaned back, ostensibly to reach for a napkin from further down the bar, allowing himself a bit more breathing room from Harrison’s advance.

Harrison, undeterred, leaned in close — much, much too close, his warm breath tickling Spock’s ear. “Would you like me to clarify my recommendation?”

“Hey, John,” a voice drawled from just behind Harrison. “I got a legal question for you.”

Harrison drew back with obvious annoyance, facing McCoy, his hand sliding swiftly off of Spock’s shoulder. “Is this about to bore me? Another question about your ‘friend’ and his lapses?”

“Nah,” McCoy said, “more about liability.” He stepped forward, holding a half-empty drink that he used to gesture toward Harrison. “If, say, a doctor were attending, oh, I don’t know, a party, and someone was about to get his nose broken — would the doctor have a legal responsibility to step in and prevent that from happening?”

Harrison huffed, even as Spock stepped back, bumping into someone just behind him. A hand gripped his elbow, and he glanced down and recognized the manicure: Nyota.

“As thrilling as that hypothetical is, I believe a man with your history of internecine conflict can probably guess the answer for himself,” Harrison said. “But do feel free to start a brawl against my legal advice, _once again_ , and see what happens.” He turned to face Spock, his smile somehow now much brighter and terrifying for its fakeness. “This has been charming. Spock, think about what I said.” Harrison nodded to them all and swept off, disappearing quickly around the curve of the bar. Spock let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding, while McCoy ground together an impressive array of curse words and metaphors.

“Your timing was impeccable, as always,” he said to Nyota, including McCoy without addressing him directly.

“Well, you couldn’t have been much clearer about what was happening if you’d been sending up smoke signals,” McCoy said.

“Plus, honestly, I wouldn’t put it past him to roofie someone,” Nyota murmured, and Spock cautiously pushed away the drink he had yet to start.

“I appreciate your concern," he started, but McCoy interrupted.

“No offense, but I’m not over here to defend your honor. If Jim gets into one more pissing match with someone ten stories above his pay grade —“ He shook his head, then edged up to the bar. “Let’s do my last order again, exactly like before. Thank you, darlin’,” he said to the bartender. “Anyway, Sulu and Scotty had him pretty well distracted, or we really might have a bloodied nose on our hands. Hippocratic Oath and all, but I still wouldn’t’ve minded seein’ that one.”

Spock nodded and felt several things at once: concern, that Jim could have caused a scene; embarrassment, than anyone had noticed this at all; distinct annoyance, that they had all felt he might need rescue; and a strange flush of pride or something else, something warm and pleased, at the idea that Jim would be so upset by Harrison’s silly ploy.

“I do assure you,” he said, smoothing down the front of his dress, “that I also would not have let it come to that.”

“Uh-huh,” Nyota said. She accepted the drink that McCoy handed over. Her eyes were a little wide, her voice a little higher than usual, all signs that several other drinks had come before this one. “You would have politely stood there getting groped against your will for the next half-hour.”

“I think that is an exaggeration,” Spock said, following her away from the bar. He wasn’t certain whether McCoy would follow and didn’t particularly care. It was probably better if he returned to Jim, and Spock wanted to talk through this with Nyota.

She had dressed up as a very specific cat from a Broadway musical that Spock had never seen, and her skintight black velvet costume should have drawn his appreciation. Instead, he was focused on following her through the crowds at the edge of the ballroom, offering polite nods to called out greetings without pausing as they wove through milling groups. She led him not back to a table or the corner where he’d last seen Stonn and T’Pring but, instead, out from the darkened ballroom and crowded hallway into the cooler, more spacious lounge area, part of the general hotel. Nyota led him toward a pair of small couches at the end of a room full of scrambled furniture, twisted into conversational pairings and separated with coffee tables and glossy travel magazines. Spock sank onto one end of the couch, eyes focused across the room on the archway that led back to the ballroom. Nyota sat in the armchair arranged next to the couch, leaning on its overstuffed arm to be closer to him.

“What did Harrison want?” she asked.

Spock shrugged. He felt silly, suddenly, in his campy gown and clammy makeup, and he wished they had gone upstairs, away from the casual glances of lobby patrons. “He has intimated that my connection with Jim is... something I should either report fully or keep from Karen’s attention. I believe his advice tonight was toward the latter.”

“His… professional advice?”

Spock sighed. “There is little that’s professional about his behavior.”

Nyota rolled her eyes. “Pretty great, considering he’s the ethics lawyer, isn’t it?”

They shared a look that was half amusement, half resignation. The company had been like this for as long as either of them had worked there. What Komack wanted, Komack got — up to and including an ethics lawyer who apparently abhorred ethical behavior.

“So he told you to break up with Jim and made a pass at you?”

Spock shook his head. “I believe his was an ‘in addition to’ offer, not an ‘in place of’ type.” Nyota raised one surprised eyebrow. Spock tried to explain Harrison’s own convoluted logic, and he watched Nyota’s eyebrow tick down into a spectacularly unimpressed glare.

“I’m actually not completely certain,” Spock said, surprised at the tentativeness in his own voice, “that he fully understands that I am not interested in his advances.”

“Have you told him no?”

“Yes.”

“And he knows you’re with Jim?”

“Yes.”

“Then that’s two perfectly good, easily understandable reasons that should have made him back the fuck off,” Nyota said. “I guess I’ll tell you the same thing you told me about working with Komack, all those years ago: Don’t let him get you alone.”

Spock winced at the truth in the statement. “Well, we shall have to endeavor not to do anything that catches the eye of the legal team, then, I suppose.”

Nyota laughed. “I’d say you’re jinxing us, but, of every team at FWN, ours has the cleanest record.” She lifted her drink. “To flying beneath the assholes’ radar!”

Spock did a mock cheers with her and, when she had finished her drink, agreed to escort her back to her room. Though a few hours probably remained in the party, Spock found that he, too, had no appetite for returning, and instead made his way back to his room. Unless he was wrong, Jim would meet him there shortly.

“Heya,” Jim said, as Spock opened the door. He smiled. “Didn’t want to miss my chance to undress you.”

“That,” Spock assured him, “is the best offer I’ve had all night.”


	16. Chapter 16

On Christmas morning, Spock called his father while making oatmeal and wished him a happy holiday. Sarek seemed mildly surprised but also very pleased with the call. “Thank you, as well, for the sweater,” he said. Spock had sent him a zip-up fleece jacket that was easy to layer and had surprisingly good wind and water resistance, something he had tested on his own version over several trips. After a few moments of consideration, he had also shipped one for Perrin. “I find the train temperatures vary dramatically these days, and I am much less tolerant than I used to be.”

“I am glad to hear it will be of use.”

They made plans to get together on New Year’s Day, when Sarek would be in the city to visit with Perrin. As Spock hung up, Jim sauntered out, rubbing his head. “Visions of sugar plums,” he said, “or maybe plum wine? What was that stuff?”

“Close enough,” Spock said. They had indulged — or in Jim’s case, overindulged — on Japanese cuisine the night before as a Christmas Eve treat, ignoring the weather broadcasts completely. Now, Spock offered Jim a bowl of oatmeal and one of the cranberry scones that Rand had left. As Jim sat, he also pushed over a mug of coffee and the bottle of Tylenol. “Merry Christmas.”

“Just what I always wanted," he said. He swallowed the medication and then patted the stool next to him. Spock took a seat with his own breakfast, and Jim tipped over to rest his head on his shoulder. “Merry Christmas to you, too.”

Spock smiled as Jim kissed the side of his neck. “This is a very different morning than what I’m used to.”

“Oh yeah? What’d you do last year?”

“The noon live report from JFK.”

Jim groaned. “That’s right, the Baby Blizzard.”

“It was not —“

“It was, but I know you hate dumb nicknames. You were out in that, huh? That sucks.”

Spock shrugged. “I felt useful.”

“I bet.” Jim sighed and sat up. “I was on Bones’s couch. He got up early to go do presents with the family.”

“This year is better,” Spock said, squeezing Jim’s shoulder.

“By far.” Now he grinned. “And once you open your presents, it’s just gonna improve!”

By agreement, they had bought each other only two gifts: one small present, under $25, and one larger item, not to exceed $250. Spock had barely stayed within the regulations, and he was hoping that a third gift (which was more of a long-term investment, and so was technically a household purchase) would be overlooked; Jim drew a box and three small bags out from the bedroom.

“Oh, and,” he said, and then returned from the bedroom with a paper box topped with…

“Socks?” Spock said, accepting the package. A pair of fuzzy, dark blue socks had been taped to the top of a box of chocolates.

“It’s like a stocking, only — useful,” Jim said. “And it totally doesn’t count against the totals, because it’s your stocking.”

The socks were so soft they felt like they were melting against Spock’s hands. “I did not procure anything similar for you,” he admitted.

“Don’t worry,” Jim said, drawing out a plastic bag of Twix bars. “I got me covered, too.”

They took turns opening their gifts. For the small gift, Jim had bought him a wood-and-metal phone stand. “So you can prop it up at your desk or here on the counter. I thought it’d be useful for when we FaceTime, too.”

Spock could already see the use for it, and it felt sturdy in his hand. “I believe I will use it frequently. Thank you.”

He nodded and turned to his own gift. Spock had enlisted Nyota’s help in tracking this one down, and he was glad: Jim’s face lit up as he opened it. “How did you get this under $25?”

“We did not specify the currency,” Spock said, and Jim just laughed. He held up his Australian Bureau of Meteorology shirt, which had the forecast printed upside down, and admired it.

“Is that a koala under the lightning?”

“There are also eight kinds of spider represented,” Spock said.

“I love it. Thank you.” He leaned over and kissed Spock, and he was so warm and close that Spock had little interest in unwrapping anything else. Jim, however, drew back. “Later. Gift first, all right?”

Spock nodded. Three small bags stood before him. The first contained plastic wall anchors. Spock looked up, but Jim just shrugged. “Gotta keep opening,” he said. The second bag held the screws that likely fit into the anchors.

“You’re going to build something?” Spock asked.

“Keep going.”

The third bag had a picture hanging kit. Spock looked at it, turning it over to make sure he hadn’t missed a card in the bag. “I believe I’m missing something.”

“Yeah,” Jim said. “It was so big, I didn’t know how to wrap it. So — I didn’t.” He got up and walked to the closet where Spock’s old, never-used bike was stored, and a moment later, he re-emerged carrying a framed piece of art at least 4 and a half feet long.

“What — “ Spock started, standing to see if he could help, and then Jim turned the photo around so that Spock could see it. It was The Lightning Fields, caught during a storm: the lightning seemed to branch, twisting down in two gnarled, jagged paths to the many poles on the ground. Behind it, the sky shone blue-green, bright and dark at the same time; looking at the picture, Spock could smell the rain, could almost feel the spark on his skin. It was a beautiful photo.

“Do you like it?” Jim asked, setting it gently on top of Spock’s counter. “I know it’s nothing like being there live, but —“

“It’s wonderful,” Spock said. He gazed at the photo, eyes following the blue-white spires of lightning. “I could look at this every day and see something new.”

“Good,” Jim said, sighing. “That’s good. I, uh, I also — this would be above the limit, but, I’d like to go there someday. I figured this could be, ah, a placeholder, until we get a chance to see it together.”

It was too easy to picture that trip: the two of them, in a cabin that felt like the end of the world, in the silence of the nearly-desert country, with storms rolling up in the distance. He could almost taste the promise of it. “I would like that very much,” Spock said, his voice deeper than usual.

Next to that, he felt his gift would be anticlimactic, but he had no other choice. So he slid over the professionally wrapped box and watched Jim tear through the paper, and then into the box, to reveal the gift below.

“I see I’m not the only one being mysterious,” Jim said, picking up the paper airplane inside.

“Actually, my gift is very nearly literally represented.” Spock took the plane from Jim and began unfolding it, revealing the actual present. “You mentioned a desire to fly, once upon a time. It turns out, I have access to not only a plane but to an unusually bored pilot who would be happy to tutor you on the subject. He’s also an accredited trainer, so you would have your own pilot’s license at the end of it, if you —"

“Yeah! Yes, I would definitely like that," he said, and drew Spock into an enormous embrace. “I can’t believe you’re going to let me fly!”

Spock laughed against Jim’s collarbone. “Have I gained some power over you of which I was previously unaware?”

“No, no. It’s just — I begged for this as a teenager. I wanted to get started with lessons, or I would have taken a job at an airfield or anything. My mom wouldn’t hear of it.” He drew back and shrugged. “Not much one for risks, and I guess I can’t blame her.”

“This will be the very safest way to learn,” Spock assured him, and possibly himself, and Jim laughed.

“Is this Sybok’s jet? Can I even train on a jet?”

“I doubt you’ll be piloting that right away,” Spock said, “but I’m certain his affection for you extends at least to hiring you as a co-pilot should your television career not work out as you’d hoped.”

“Well,” Jim said, “it’s a risky business.” He leaned in and kissed Spock, and then again, and then it became clear that, with no presents left to unwrap, Spock could return to his plans of unwrapping Jim.

So he did.

* * *

They made it back to the living room an hour or so later, having napped lightly and then woken up ravenous. Jim inspected the refrigerator while Spock made more coffee. “Oooh, pastries,” Jim said, pulling a paper container from the middle of the fridge.

He was wearing just striped pajama pants, and Spock took a moment to appreciate the muscles ripple across his back. Spock had pulled a robe on over his pajama pants, and endured Jim’s gentle teasing when he’d also opted to put on his new fuzzy socks. They were comfortable, and right now, Spock was fine with enjoying a few days of pure comfort.

In fact: “Perhaps we could eat in the living room.”

Jim gave him a stare of dramatic surprise. “What? Food? Not in the kitchen?”

“It is Christmas,” Spock said. He poured them both a cup of coffee, then carried them toward the living room, enjoying Jim’s gentle laughter behind him.

They sat together on the couch, the pastries Rand had selected displayed on a plate before them, and ate quietly. It was wonderful, Spock thought. The warmth of Jim’s skin seeped through even Spock’s padded sleeve, and he felt delighted by Jim’s presence, by the comfort of being comfortable in his presence.

A loud noise startled them both from their second breakfasts, and they traded surprised looks. “Santa?” Jim asked, and Spock rolled his eyes.

“There are no children on this floor,” Spock pointed out, though he distinctly heard bells. A moment later, he heard a knock on the door, and now he exchanged wary and curious glances with Jim.

“Did you order something?” Jim asked.

“No.”

“Huh,” Jim said, and stood to answer the door. Spock folded up the paper bag the pastries had come in and sat back, still sipping his coffee. He wondered whether they should try to see a movie in the next day or two, or return to their usual Indian restaurant for dinner.

“Oh my God,” he heard Jim say, and then a woman’s loud voice carried through.

“Merry Christmas to you, too, Jim. Surprise!” Spock sat up straight as he watched Jim be pulled into an embrace. “You didn’t really think I’d forget you on Christmas, did you?”

“No, ah, uh, Merry Christmas to you, too, Mom.”

“What are you wearing?” she said, her voice high and full of laughter. “It’s freezing outside. Sam’s still parking the car, but I couldn’t take another minute out there.”

Spock heard the click of heels across his floor, but felt frozen in place. There had been no mention of Jim’s family being in town for Christmas; in fact, Jim had expressed relief that he would not need to deal with them this year. Now, it seemed, he was about to meet Jim’s mother whether either of them were ready for it or not.

He had just managed to stand up when Winona Kirk walked into the dining area, throwing her fur-lined coat onto one of the tall kitchen chairs. She was slightly taller than Spock had expected, though a full head shorter than he was, and quite thin, with long brown hair swinging elegantly to the middle of her back. She wore an off-white, knee-length sweater dress and high, maroon leather boots that matched her beret. When she turned, her gold bracelets tinkled. “I meant to be in California for the holiday, but your aunt — “ She stopped, suddenly, as she had apparently noticed Spock while turning back to Jim. “Oh! Hello. You must be Jim’s roommate.”

Behind his mother, Jim was rubbing his face with both hands. “No, Mom, this is Spock.”

Winona’s face did not change at all, remaining a mask of polite, bland curiosity. “I’m Jim’s mother, Mrs. Kirk. I do appreciate that you’ve put Jim up. I keep saying, it’s ridiculous not to have your own place in the city —“

“I do have my own place,” Jim started, but his mother kept talking.

“— as though you’re still some vagabond twenty-year-old. Really. But it’s good to know he can depend on the kindness of his friends and colleagues. I believe you work together?”

“We do,” Spock said, watching Jim’s eyes bulge dangerously. “It is nice to meet you, Mrs. Kirk. If you’ll excuse me a moment,” he said, and drew his robe around himself before walking to the bedroom. Inside, he closed the door but leaned against it, listening to the conversation without.

“Are you kidding me?” Jim said. “Mom, what are you even doing here?”

“Don’t you want to see your mother on Christmas? I know, it’s a surprise, but when we had to cancel our flights I told Sam to book us here. Oh, don’t be mad at him, I made him swear he wouldn’t tell you we were coming.”

Spock put the chances of Jim not being upset with his brother at equal to the chance for a high of 112 the next day.

“— just barge in here, though,” Jim was saying.

“Your roommate doesn’t seem to mind.” Spock heard another knock, then, and he resigned himself to actually needing to get dressed. What was the appropriate attire for meeting one’s partner’s mother? he wondered. He decided to take his signal from Winona’s outfit, and he selected black slacks and a button-down teal shirt. After a moment’s contemplation, he decided showering would also be appropriate, even if it would leave Jim to dealing with his family on his own.

When he emerged, he found Jim sitting on the bed, pulling on sneakers. He was dressed in one of his typical, humorous T-shirts and a pair of jeans with ragged holes up and down the thighs. When he looked up at Spock, he frowned. “I am so sorry about this,” he said.

Spock shrugged. “I do not believe you have anything to apologize for.”

“Oh, that’s only because you haven’t been out there much yet.” He sighed and yanked his second shoe on. Now, his voice was low. “Mom’s not exactly predictable at the best of times.”

He nodded and sat next to Jim, resting a hand on his thigh. “What can I do to help you?”

“Just — nothing,” Jim said, and sunk against him. “Just be you.”

Spock nodded. “Do you — would you like her to continue to believe our association is that of roommates?”

“No,” Jim said. “I’ve already made that clear to her. Again, I might add, since she knows I have a boyfriend.” He rubbed his face again, leaving the skin slightly pink. “It’s like a hurricane, you know? Sometimes you just have to ride it out.”

“That is a terrifying analogy,” Spock said, and Jim smiled, just briefly. “I take it your brother arrived?”

“Oh, yeah,” Jim said. “And he knows he’s in the doghouse.”

“This sounds like the making of a delightful afternoon.” Spock stood and offered Jim a hand up, which he took. “I will join you as soon as I have my shoes on. Should I make arrangements for lunch?”

Jim shrugged. “Whatever we have here is fine. Mom doesn’t really eat much, and who knows how long they’ll stay.”

“I believe we have oatmeal and your last box of Pop Tarts,” Spock said. “My plan for the day had included visiting the Indian restaurant Sybok introduced us to.”

Jim frowned. “Let’s not ruin that place by taking my family there. I’ll see if there’s something we can order.” He kissed Spock’s cheek, then walked back out to the living room.

Spock took his time putting on shoes, then evaluated his own appearance. Not exactly the comfortable Christmas wear he’d envisioned, but good enough.

In the living room, Jim’s brother, Sam, sat on the couch, hands resting on his knees and tension visible across his broad shoulders. Spock could see the resemblance between them in their hair color and the shape of their mouths, but Sam looked broader, taller. He wore a gray-striped sweater and jeans, and something in his appearance — the sun-bleached hair or the hemp bracelet, perhaps — reminded Spock of the professional surfers he’d interviewed a year ago.

“Oh, hi,” Sam said, his voice like Jim’s but lower. “You must be Spock.”

“I am. Hello,” Spock said. “You must be Sam.”

He nodded, too quickly, though his smile seemed genuine. “It’s great to meet you,” he said. “Merry Christmas, too.”

“And to you,” Spock said. He glanced around and saw Jim and his mother were engaged in hushed discussion at the edge of the kitchen, Jim gesturing broadly with his hands. Spock took a seat in the armchair. A small pile of picture hanging equipment was still stacked on the end table. “Did you just arrive today?”

“No, we came in yesterday,” Sam said. “Mom wanted a little time for shopping.” He shrugged and looked down. “I’m sorry to just barge in like this. I know you probably had other plans.”

Spock shrugged. “I don’t believe so. Regardless, I have wanted to meet you for quite a while, so I am grateful for the opportunity.”

When Sam smiled, he looked like Jim. “Really? Me, too, I mean, I’ve been dying of curiosity since Jim first mentioned you.” The voices in the kitchen both raised, briefly, and Spock thought he heard Jim say, “That’s not good enough!” before the volume dropped again. Sam sighed. “Not that it seems like we’ll get much chance today.”

Spock nodded, unsure of what to say. Jim certainly sounded agitated.

“Look, whatever happens,” Sam said, suddenly, voice low, “I think we’ll be in town for a few days. So maybe — if Jim will let me off the hook for the surprise — the three of us could get together once?”

“I would like that,” Spock said, equally quiet. At a normal tone, he said, “I’m afraid our lunch plans were not fully developed. Jim mentioned that Chinese might be appropriate?”

Sam nodded, voice now matching Spock’s in volume. “The place Jim ordered from last time was great, actually. Do you think they’re open today?”

“I think it is worth the attempt,” Spock said. He would also volunteer to go pick the food up, if it meant leaving behind the strangely combative atmosphere around them.

“Oh, no, let’s go out,” Mrs. Kirk said. “It’s the least I can do, really. I’ll treat!”

Jim sighed and rubbed his forehead. “OK, Mom. OK.”

Lunch wound up being the highlight of the day. Jim’s mother had a knack for carrying conversation, one that Spock suspected had been honed on television talk shows. He tried to think of a time when he’d been part of such a parade of trivial commentary and came up with no other examples. Still, it was useful; they experienced no awkward pauses and only a few tense glares from Jim as they ate, and the conversation wasn’t dull, at least.

True to her word, Mrs. Kirk paid for the meal, and for their cab rides, charging everything to a glamorous high-limit credit card, blinking away Spock’s thank you as though it was literally of no concern to her. He had grown up around diplomats and expense accounts, but also around meticulous receipt tracking and, later, his mother’s overt budget worries. Briefly, Spock wondered if Sybok now moved through the world like this, and he couldn’t quite picture it.

At the end of their lunch, Mrs. Kirk — she had never corrected Spock on the title, and so he accordingly did not attempt a first-name address — said, abruptly, that she was expected elsewhere.

“Ellie is a bulldog when I don’t visit, Jim, you know that,” she said, drawing her coat around her. They were standing on the sidewalk outside of Plum Plum, braced against a chilly wind. Spock thought the wind chill might be in the low twenties. “And all alone on the holidays, not surrounded by family like we are.”

Jim just nodded. “Sure, Mom, of course.”

Mrs. Kirk blinked twice, perhaps surprised — as Spock was — by the resignation in Jim’s voice. “I could likely stay long enough to see you home,” she said, but Jim shook his head.

“We’re going in opposite directions.”

The Kirks all embraced. As Mrs. Kirk pulled back, she gestured at Sam, who shook his head.

“I’m gonna stay with Jim and Spock for a while — if that’s OK?” he asked.

“Perfectly,” Spock said, before Jim could demur.

Mrs. Kirk’s mouth fell slightly open, her eyes briefly narrowing, before the emotion disappeared from her face. “Of course, of course. Well. Text me what you’re getting up to, will you?”

“Sure, Mom,” both Sam and Jim said, then grinned at each other.

It ended up being a nice afternoon and evening. Jim had vented his anger at Sam by the time they reached the apartment again, and as Spock pulled out drinks for them all, they started talking amiably. Sam had spent much of the year traveling with Winona or managing things at the George Kirk Foundation’s headquarters near Hollywood. The Foundation raised money for a few causes that were close to George’s and Winona’s hearts, and Spock gave them some credit for the complexity of the issues. They funded emergency medical grants for performers, paid for family leave, including maternity and paternity “fellowships,” and ran a long-term care and pension-type fund. Sam spoke earnestly of the Foundation’s work, and then more shyly about the new outreach director, a brilliant young lawyer named Aurelian. When he grinned while talking about how she had asked him on a series of creative dates, it was a toothy, bright grin that looked more like the photos Spock had seen of George Kirk than anything Jim had ever done.

“Anyway, it’s good," he said, finally, shrugging. “I mean, Mom’s Mom, whatever, but everything else — it’s good.”

Jim laughed. “My brother, a wizard of words,” he said, knocking his shoulder against Sam’s. “It is good to see you, you know.”

“Yeah, you, too. I was gonna have to make up some event out here to get to meet Spock soon.” He smiled across the kitchen at Spock, who was refilling Jim’s glass with ice.

“I am glad you stayed,” Spock said, simply, meaning it.

“God, you’re all settled down, and I’m… whatever it is, with Aurie.” Sam shook his head. “Now we just need to find Mom someone. It’s too bad Chris is all happily married.”

Spock couldn’t help raising his eyebrows. Jim laughed. “Jesus, if Mom was dating Pike I’d have to get a new career. No. Can’t even think about it.”

“They knew each other, though, you remember?”

He shook his head. “I’m not hearing any of this, Sam. Not hearing it, not imagining it.” Jim shivered. “Just, they were never actually —“

“Nah, I don’t think so. Pretty sure Livia was his number one and only back then, too. But Mom and Livia were on the same soap opera for a while.”

Jim sighed. “Thank god. He already acts like he’s my dad half the time. I don’t need to find out…”

Sam burst out giggling. “Oh, shit, that would be priceless. Do I get the whole family fortune then, because maybe we should get some DNA test going, just in case…”

Sam stayed over, sleeping on the couch and complaining only about Jim’s imaginary snoring in the morning. Winona did not appear for breakfast, as she’d suggested she might, but she did require Sam’s presence at a somewhat-business luncheon across town.

“OK, next time we come through,” Sam said, standing at the doorway, holding out his hand to shake.

Jim grabbed it, then pulled him in to a hug. “You stay with us. Any time. Or bring Aurelian out for a long weekend.”

“And you two, don’t be strangers, either,” Sam said. “We have weather in California.”

“Not really,” Jim said, but he beamed when Sam gave Spock a quick hug. “Take it easy, man.”

“It was nice to meet you,” Spock said.

“Likewise. Catch you later, guys.”

When the door closed behind him, Jim leaned back on it for just a moment. He rubbed both hands over his face, but he didn’t look upset when he lowered them. “So, that’s Sam.”

Spock nodded. “Yes, I did catch his name.”

He laughed. “Shit. Well. I guess now we’ve done the full round of meet the family, except for, uh, Pike, and did you say your grandmother’s still around…?”

“I am content with the conversations we’ve had.”

“Good.” Jim crossed the room and fell back onto the couch. The living room looked strangely unsettled, and Spock found it hard to believe that Christmas had been only that morning. The giant picture from the lightning fields still lay against the far wall, and Spock studied it instead of returning to clear up dinner. “Content, huh? I feel like I was there before we were interrupted yesterday.”

Spock understood this for what it was — a come on, and also a way to avoid talking at all about Winona Kirk’s abrupt appearance or departure. He said, “I was, as well, though now I believe it would require an additional step to reach such contentment again.”

Jim drew up on his elbows. “Oh? What’s that?”

Spock picked up what remained of the second bottle of wine they had opened over dinner with Sam. “For reasonable contentment this afternoon, I require this wine,” he said, and then set it on the coffee table. Before Jim could ask anything else, Spock straddled him on the couch. “And your full attention.”

“All yours," he said, grinning, and leaned up to kiss him.


	17. Chapter 17

After the holidays, it was business as usual. Winter weather was volatile in a different way than summer’s myriad dangers, and it was, in some strange way, their busiest time of the year. That was because everyone had an opinion about forecasting in the winter, when being off by a degree meant the difference between normal days or school closings and flight cancelations. Winter weather was also immediately, visually dangerous, with ice lining roadways or glittering on branches. Power outages spread over the plains for several days, and they ran video in a loop of a semi-trailer skidding down a too-crowded Wisconsin highway.

So many storms had hit that even Jim couldn’t cover everything, which meant Spock was sent back into the field. A bomb cyclone struck in mid-February, causing record-breaking snow up and down the Eastern seaboard. Spock anchored the Lab Deck show standing in a foot of snow outside of a scenic courthouse in Virginia, then threw to Jim’s crew in white-out conditions in upstate New York. The next month found them on opposite assignments again: a massive late winter blizzard paralyzed the East Coast in March, stranding Spock in Boston. Jim was in New York, and so for once their roles were reversed. Spock huddled in his FWN parka and reported on the escalating emergency in Boston, where 20 inches of snow had already fallen, and Jim, snug in the studio, commiserated and provided information from their models.

 _Get out of there,_ Jim texted while on a commercial break. _I can use the local guys. You need to go inside._

Spock’s hands were shaking too much to type a reply, which was probably an answer unto itself. The wind had picked up enough that getting good audio was a struggle, anyway, so Spock tucked his phone back into his pocket and trudged over to the van.

His crew for the trip consisted of Jed Olson, an experienced (if unpredictable) camera operator, and Kelly Diaz, an assistant producer who often traveled with the daytime reporters. They were hunched up in the front seat, enjoying the heater’s warmth and monitoring the news on their phones. Spock peeled back his hood and outer parka and hung it over the bench seat. Unlike Jim’s luxurious Enterprise, they had a rented satellite truck that had seen better days.

They had comfortable rooms at a hotel a few miles away, and Spock already knew his chances of seeing those hotel rooms were quite slim. The drive itself would take them at least an hour in current conditions, if every road was open and there were no accidents en route. He unzipped his inner fleece, stretched back across the seat, and asked Diaz to wake him when he was next needed. Before he could nap, though, he texted Jim to let him know he’d rest for a bit.

 _Good,_ he replied _. Gonna get worse before it’s better, unfortunately._ He sent a short clip from the most recent polar satellite, showing the immense spread of the system over the mid-Atlantic and New England. New York might get off light, but Boston was going to be pummeled. The cyclone was a monster, but at least they’d been prepared. It had spent a few days forming over the midwest, gaining power as it drifted over the Great Lakes, before finally evolving into this gigantic nor’easter. It had built in ideal conditions, at perfect speed and height, to become something extraordinary. By the final tally, Spock thought this March blizzard might end up as a billion-dollar storm. Not one to rival the 1993 superstorm, perhaps, but close enough. That storm had killed a few hundred people from freezing temperatures, falling tree limbs, and eventually from storm surge.

He rolled to his side, his face toward the plasticky vinyl back of the seat. Once his hands were steady, he picked up his phone. _Are we monitoring downstream of the rivers?_

 _Chekov’s on it. I’ll check his work. Rest_.

He closed his eyes.

Spock woke up to Diaz clearing her throat in an exaggerated manner. “Oh, good,” she said, when he sat up slowly. “They’re asking for another live report.”

Spock nodded and reached for his phone. He listened as Diaz rattled off the latest reports while simultaneously looking at the latest satellite pictures and models himself. Then, still feeling a bit groggy, he texted Jim. _What do I need to know?_

 _Predicting another 1-2 inches by midnight but could go to 5-6,_ Jim wrote, though Spock had already gathered that. _Mass transit out for another day. Power out to 80K._

_Local reporters?_

_useless,_ Jim wrote. _sorry, sweetheart. need you to explain this one. bundle up._

They did another two-hour stint, Spock hopping into the van between live sessions. Olson had set up the camera and was running the zoom remotely from the truck, a trick he had apparently learned from Scott. Spock wasn’t sure he thought it a good idea, but he did envy Olson the warm interior of the van between live shots. He gave updates on the snow’s depth, returning to a measuring stick they had set in a patch of grass, and gave further details about ground temperature and moisture readings in the air. In the background, they heard the occasional siren, but for the most part the city had ground to a halt under a blanket of thick, wet snow.

“We could try to get a shot from the roof,” Olson said, eyeing the building on the next corner. A rusty fire escape snaked down one side, its ladder extended to the alleyway.

“No,” Spock said. “Visibility is low enough that aerial shots would give no meaningful improvements over those on the ground.”

Olson snorted. “Wouldn’t stop Kirk’s team.”

Spock barely refrained from rolling his eyes. He was sorry that he hadn’t requested Hannity, the camerawoman he usually worked with, or asked for Stonn’s company.

An hour later, it was getting dark enough that filming outside made little sense. Snow in the dark looked just about the same as no snow in the dark, and Stonn and T’Pring — who had taken over for Jim — concurred that there would be little value in further live reporting until the next day. Olson drove them up a few blocks, then stopped to get a little footage of a city work crew trying to clear a tree out of an emergency route. Spock sat in the back and shivered, already looking forward to the hotel, however long it would be until they arrived.

 _I’d say you should order some dinner in, but…_ Jim wrote.

 _I am well provisioned, provided the power stays on,_ Spock assured him. He had packed himself two boxes of oatmeal mixes that he could make, in a pinch, from the hotel’s coffeemaker, along with a variety of energy bars. He still had two of the bars in his pockets at the moment, next to his fading hand-warmers.

The van lurched forward as Olson steered them onto another unplowed street. Snow stacked on the branches, bending trees into their path. Spock didn’t see any lights on, and he sent T’Pring a note about the power outage for her next report.

Fifteen minutes later, they seemed no closer to the hotel or to streets that had been treated at all. “Maybe we should just find a place around here,” Diaz suggested as they crawled through a snow-packed intersection.

“Nah, we’re gonna be fine once we get back on the highway,” Olson said, actually grinning as the van slid slightly. “It’s only a few blocks up.”

That estimate proved accurate, but his prediction of being fine was not. The on-ramp to the highway had no other cars visible, though Spock could just barely make out tracks in the piles of snow. Instead of creeping up the incline, as Spock might have done, Olson gunned the van and they swerved up onto the basically empty highway. Snow drifts made most of the left side of the road impassable, and from the jarring rumbles beneath them, Spock realized they were driving on the right shoulder. They saw blue flashing lights on the other side for only a second before they rumbled past. At least they’d seen someone, Spock thought.

It took ten minutes to creep the next half mile, which put them near the exit for their hotel. Olson tried to maneuver the van onto the exit ramp and succeeded, instead, in colliding sharply with a guard rail. Diaz and Olson both snapped against their seatbelts, but Spock was thrown to the side, his wrist, shoulder, and head slamming into the door.

“Oh fuck," Olson said, and the van lurched again. Spock clung to the edge of the bench as they slid down the ramp, the van seeming to teeter on one side and then the other. Equipment shifted and clattered all around them, and he heard Diaz curse sharply.

When the van finally skidded to a stop, they were in the middle of an intersection. The streets around them were deserted save for the bluish headlights of a single truck, perpendicular to their landing spot. Spock heard a door slam, and then the crunch of footsteps as someone approached.

“Everyone OK?” a woman called.

Olson shook himself like a dog, one full-body shiver. “I don’t know. Guys? You all right?”

“Yeah,” Diaz said, rubbing her hands over her face. “What the fuck, Olson?”

“Hey, it’s icy,” he said, shrugging. “Dr. Grayson?”

Spock sat up slowly, taking inventory of his physical state as he did so. Most pressing was the pain from his wrist, though his shoulder and head ached, too. “Unclear,” he said, rotating his shoulder slowly. “I do not think I require emergency assistance.”

Olson said, “Good deal,” and then hopped out of the van. He and the woman from the truck evaluated their situation. Spock sat back and took a long, slow breath before attempting to flex his wrist. The first movement was so painful that he gasped.

“You all right?” Diaz asked.

“My wrist has sustained an injury,” Spock said.

When she turned to look at him, her eyes were wide. “Broken?”

“I’m not sure,” he admitted. “But I am unable to move it without significant pain.”

She frowned. “Shit. I’m not sure how we’re going to find a doctor tonight.”

Spock started to agree, then realized his mistake. “I believe I have one I can consult, if we make it back to the hotel.”

When Spock walked into the FWN tower, two days later, having come directly from the train station and still dragging his bag, he was greeted by Leonard McCoy. “In my office, now,” McCoy said, yanking Spock’s suitcase from his hand. He led the way to the conference room, and Spock followed silently. Once inside, McCoy closed the doors and turned the windows opaque before turning to Spock.

“Let’s see it,” he said, and Spock carefully took off his coat and then pushed up his left sleeve. His bandaged wrist was still slightly swollen and difficult to move. McCoy unwrapped the ace bandage and lay his fingers gently on Spock’s skin. He asked Spock to move it, making considering noises as he registered pain or ease.

“Get an X-ray to be sure,” he said, “but I still bet on sprain. Rest, elevation, ice, and get the bandage back on.”

“Understood,” Spock said, starting to wrap it again. “Thank you.”

McCoy batted his hands away and started doing the wrap for him. “Yeah, well, now that I know you’re OK — what the hell were you thinking? You’re supposed to be keeping Jim from doing these damn-fool stunt reports, not attempting them yourself. Jesus, it’s not like I can clone myself to travel with you or anything.”

“I do not travel nearly as often as Jim does,” Spock said, “and this is the only significant injury I’ve had in the past five years.”

“Wear a god-damned seatbelt, you hear me? I don’t have the patience left to scrape Jim off the floor if something more dramatic happens to you.” He grunted, checked his work once more, and turned away, headed for the door. “He’ll be on air for another forty-five minutes, if you’re looking.”

Searching for Jim had been Spock’s next idea, but now he eschewed it in favor of returning to his team. Nyota shook her head as he approached, managing to look both amused and aggrieved. “You know they’ve run the footage of your van about 800 times by now.”

“How is there footage of our van?”

“Somebody had a cameraphone.” Spock barely held back from rolling his eyes. “Yeah, it’s bad quality, too. Be grateful you’re not visible for any part of it.”

“I was too busy rolling around on the floor with the loose equipment.”

“‘Loose Equipment’ could be a good band name," Stonn said, coming up behind them.

“No, it really could not be,” T’Pring said, also joining them. She wore a suit that made Spock think she’d just come from air, which was particularly curious if Jim was also on-air. “It is good you are back. How are your injuries?”

“My wrist is only sprained,” Spock said.

T’Pring hummed. “And your head?” she asked.

Spock blinked. He’d said nothing to anyone except Jim about his headache, knowing that McCoy would have demanded he visit a hospital if he heard. “It is fine.”

She hummed again, and Spock did not think it was a satisfied noise. “Kirk will be done in the next ten minutes. Please sit down before any other hardship befalls you.” Though her words were dripping with sarcasm, her hand was gentle on his shoulder, and Spock let himself be led to his desk chair.

“Thank you.”

Nyota appeared only a moment later with a mug of herbal tea. When Spock gave her a questioning glance, she said, “We’ve shown that footage so much, I feel like I have it memorized. So I know it was a bad hit.”

He nodded, slowly, and accepted the drink, then thanked her, too.

What he’d told McCoy was the truth. Spock had never been injured at work. He’d never been much more than mildly inconvenienced, really. He’d been ill, certainly, and had missed a day here or there for it, but he’d never returned to such greetings. This time, his colleagues had been worried about _him,_ not just how his absence might have an impact on their work. It felt strangely touching to see it so plainly on their faces.

Ten minutes later, he saw the same flicker of concern across Jim’s face before it was carefully neutralized. “Hey, you’re back,” he said, stopping at the edge of Nyota’s desk. “Good trip?”

“Adequate,” Spock said. It surprised him every time, now, how much he immediately desired physical contact when he saw Jim. He looked away, studying the computer monitor before him instead. “I did not have a chance to see the broadcast. How did it go?”

“Eh, fine,” he said. “No big surprises. Lots of clean-up video.” He raised an eyebrow. “Finally had a multi-car pile up that someone caught on their phone, so you’re off the rotation.”

Spock frowned. “Small mercies,” he said, and Jim smiled.

His hand rested gently on Spock’s shoulder for just a moment. “Go home,” he murmured. “You look like hell.” Spock raised an eyebrow. “Which is still hot,” Jim added, winking, “but seriously.”

Spock nodded, then sighed. “Leonard has advised me to get an X-ray for my wrist.”

Jim frowned. “Tonight? You’ll be in the E.R. for hours.” Jim pulled out his phone. “I think we can do better than that. Wait a second.” He fired off a text message to someone, then smirked when he received an apparently instantaneous reply. Spock watched this exchange silently for a moment, not really caring what was happening. It wasn’t as though he could join in: His phone had shattered upon impact with something during the crash, so he’d been without a mobile ever since.

It had been a crazy two days, really. After their van accident, they’d managed to limp back to the hotel, but that trip had taken 2 hours. Spock had clenched his teeth for most of the journey, both still frightened of Olson’s driving and in considerable pain from his wrist and throbbing head. He’d gone to his room and fired up his computer to Skype with McCoy, who had diagnosed a probable sprain or break, and then he’d taken as many pain killers as McCoy thought safe before falling asleep. (In hindsight, that had been an inexcusable lapse in judgement, considering how much his head hurt). The next day, donning an ace wrap that Diaz had procured, he’d managed to send in a few hours of film while standing on the frozen balcony of their hotel. The rest of the afternoon had been spent trying to find a flight or train back to the city. The one he’d finally found had been delayed three times for no visible reason before being canceled outright, which had put Spock on the train he’d taken today.

To say he was tired would have been a serious understatement. He wondered if Jim might be able to hand his prime-time report off to someone else for the evening, so that he’d be free to take Spock home, and then he felt immediately ridiculous about it. He hadn’t needed anyone to tuck him since he was a child, and he hadn’t had anyone to mother him since he was 16.

“Come on,” Jim said, suddenly, speaking very softly, and Spock realized he might have started to doze off. “I’ll walk you out.”

As they rode down in the elevator, Spock felt a confusing mix of emotions. He was grateful for Jim’s care and for the way everyone had clearly been concerned for him. He was worried that his work relationships had become so entangled with his personal feelings that he might no longer be able to make strictly professional decisions at work. And he was feeling a little sorry for himself because, as Jim mentioned, he would likely have to go sit in an emergency room alone for the next several hours. Perhaps he could put that off, though, until the morning. His regular physician might consent to seeing him on short notice in an emergency.

He was trying to think through the logistics of all of this as the elevator descended, and so he was surprised when the doors opened not onto the lobby but into the private parking garage. Jim ushered him out, and Spock gave him a curious glance. As far as he knew, Jim did not own a car, but perhaps he was in for another surprise.

In fact, he was: Sybok emerged from a sleek electric car parked near the exit.

“What are you doing here?”

“Ferrying you to medical care,” Sybok said. “If I’d known you were injured, I would have sent the plane to Boston yesterday!”

“That is unnecessary,” Spock said, still surprised. “But — generous.”

Sybok shrugged. “Listen, if we leave now I think we can get in with Dr. Moulton right away. Are you all set?”

Spock glanced back at Jim, who grinned. “He’s all yours,” Jim said. “Just get him back in one piece. Or put him back in one piece, if you have to.”

Two hours later, Spock was back at his own apartment, resting on his couch. His wrist had an alarmingly high-tech splint, and after a thorough check of his head injury, he’d been given a prescription for painkillers and instructed to get at least eight hours of sleep as soon as possible. Sybok had ordered too generously from a nearby Thai restaurant, and so he was full, and comfortable, and cared for. It was… quite strange.

“Mm,” Sybok said, taking a final bite of noodles. Spock didn’t have the heart to chase him back into the kitchen; besides, Sybok could buy him a new armchair if he stained this one. “Well, you were basically raised to be a self-sufficient robot. Undoing that programming could take some time.”

Spock raised an eyebrow. “Oh?”

Sybok shrugged. “Dad’s not one for shows of emotion, right? And I was a pain in his ass for, let’s be honest, nearly 38 of my 40 years so far, so he may have been practicing some self defense at times. Amanda…” he trailed off, but not in the pitying way that Spock feared.

“She was very loving.”

“Yeah,” Sybok said. “I know. She was even good to me when I was being a jerk. But she wasn’t exactly home that much.”

That was an understatement. Spock’s mother had traveled extensively throughout his childhood and teen years. Her work required her presence around the globe. Ironically, even though his father was the jet-setting diplomat on paper, he had traveled much less frequently. Spock had earned most of his childhood education in foreign boarding schools that were only a short trip from his father’s workplace. When his mother had been present, she had been effusive in her praise and demonstrative of her love, but by the time they’d moved back to the States, Spock had been too old (too adolescent) to desire that kind of relationship anymore.

Perhaps what Sybok was saying had some merit. Spock had never really had someone around to comfort or care for him, not even when he was very young. Amanda would have certainly done so, had she been present, but there were always refugee crises to attend. Sarek had never dealt well with children or, really, young adults. His respectful admiration now was much warmer than most of what Spock had felt from him when they’d been in the same home.

Even as an adult, he’d never really had anyone to turn to beyond himself — or, well, he’d never done it. Sybok probably always would have come, if called, and Spock could now see that his father, too, would have been available had he needed him. But his romantic relationships had not exactly been the close-commitment kind. Had he fallen ill or been moderately injured, he had no doubt that T’Pring would have sent a practical gift and Nyota would have offered to send food over, but neither one would have gone out of her way to arrange for his comfort.

But Jim had called in his brother. He’d made sure that Spock’s next two on-air shifts were covered. Through the many social outings he’d encouraged, he’d help Spock draw closer to the people around them, and now, when he needed them — they were all there.

The front door clicked, then opened, and Jim walked in, as though summoned by Spock’s thoughts. He took off his coat, then called out a greeting. “Hey, how are you feeling?”

Spock pointed to his splint. “Well enough.”

“Clean bill of health,” Sybok said, hanging his head over the back of his chair to look at Jim. “Nothing too athletic for a few days.”

“Well, there goes my weekend plans,” Jim said, and Sybok snorted. “They checked your head out?”

“Yes. No concussion.”

“That’s good. Might be hard to be on television if you can’t handle bright lights.” Spock heard Jim opening the refrigerator. A few moments later, he joined them in the living room, carrying a beer and one of the cartons of Thai food. He sat cross-legged on the carpet, placing his food on the coffee table, and raised an eyebrow at Spock.

“I’ve decided you can both afford to buy me new furniture if you stain anything,” Spock said, and Jim grinned and took a sip from his beer.

“I’m good for it,” he said. “Plus I kind of live here, so… you know where to find me.”

“I do,” Spock said, and he tried to ignore Sybok giggling.

“He’s just so… normal!” Sybok finally said. “Sorry, Jim, that’s not an insult, you’re of course well above average in intelligence and looks and all of that, but — I just always figured Spock would settle down with someone as weirdly formal and emotionally stunted as we are.”

“I’d hardly call you formal,” Jim said, and then offered Spock a smaller, more genuine smile, as he said, “And Spock gets his feelings across just fine for me.”

Maybe, Spock thought, that was all that actually mattered. Maybe that was the difference. Jim _understood_ him. Spock wasn’t sure what to do with that feeling, really: After a lifetime of being on the outside of most social cliques and of keeping others at a safe distance because of it, being close to Jim — being known by him — was terrifying and wonderful all at once.

For now, he decided, he didn’t need to do anything except be here. Science had taught him what to do when he didn’t understand a phenomenon: observe. Luckily, he thought, glancing across the table, he didn’t mind keeping a close watch on Jim at all.


	18. Chapter 18

Spock’s wrist healed with no problems, and he was back on air and in the thick of a busy season quickly thereafter. In fact, that quiet night over Thai food was one of the last that he and Jim had together for a while. For the next three months, they juggled storms and travel. The work was as exhilarating as ever, but Spock found himself sometimes wishing things would move faster, that time would go more quickly, until he and Jim could be together again.

Finally, after a warmer-than-usual Spring turned to an already-blazing Summer, after too many good-nights either done quickly over Skype or missed entirely because of conflicting timezones, they planned a trip, a weekend away without weather or emergency or work. They chose the town a based on travel time and long-term weather conditions: Baltimore won out, with a predicted 3-day average high of 72 degrees with scattered clouds and little wind. Spock booked a restaurant reservation at a renowned but out-of-the-way place where the wine list was well regarded; Jim chose the hotel and rented a car, which he promised to drive. Spock planned to arrive by train as soon as he finished his work, and Jim would fly in from wherever his assignment had taken him. They would just relax, together. They would eat crab and drink wine and perhaps drive to some walkable part of the coast.

Spock wondered if the mini holiday might be a try-out of sorts, if Jim was considering whether they should make their living arrangement more permanent by acquiring a larger space together. He had begun to wonder what Jim’s feelings might be about making their entire arrangement more permanent. Did he desire marriage? Did he have any visions of raising children? Spock wasn’t certain of his own answers to those questions, but he increasingly wanted to consider them with Jim.

He was looking forward to the trip. They just needed to get through one full week of their regular jobs, first, which included Jim being across the country to report on building wildfires while Spock pulled a few 14-hour workdays trying to talk about damaging storms on one side of the country and keep up-to-date models on the wind patterns for the fires at the other. His phone hummed with updates from the National Weather Service, and he thought about the weekend ahead. A spa tub, Jim had promised. A balcony. A city they barely knew, which barely knew them.

The fires grew worse, spreading rapidly without meaningful containment, rocketing down overgrown hills and jumping fire breaks. A firefighter was wounded as they attempted a backburn; an unincorporated town was evacuated under rolling clouds of smoke, and then a highway was shut down. Talk started about whether Missoula would be threatened. The network sent Jim closer, and he reported that McCoy was making the whole crew wear breathing masks all the time off air.

“So hot,” Jim muttered when they managed to talk by phone, briefly, at 1 a.m. Spock’s time and 11 p.m. for Jim.

“I do find un-scorched lungs rather attractive,” Spock said, and Jim laughed and coughed. “Are you well?”

“Well enough for this weekend, don’t you worry,” Jim said. “I’m gonna live in that jacuzzi. Like your own personal merman.”

“I’ve had worse offers today,” Spock said, laying back on his too-empty bed. He told Jim about Karen Komack butting into another meeting and about some strange dare/bet that Stonn and T’Pring had which involved trying to shoehorn the dictionary’s word of the day into her on-air reports multiple times. Jim recalled an unfortunate lunch in the Enterprise with Scott and Sulu and several questionable tuna sandwiches. They traded notes on the weather patterns they’d seen for the area, too, and Jim mentioned a bulletin Spock hadn’t yet seen from the NWS. It was nice, and it was not enough.

They chatted only for a bit more, as Jim was sharing one of the town’s last available motel rooms with McCoy and didn’t want to incur his wrath for staying up too late. “I miss you,” Spock said, surprising himself, at the end of the call.

“I miss you, too. God, it would be great to have you here, except that it totally sucks here.”

“Four more days,” Spock said, “and you will have as much of me as you want.”

“Not sure I could get enough, but I like a challenge. Oh, and now Bones looks like he’s gonna puke, so, achievement unlocked. Talk to you tomorrow.”

“Good night.”

It would not be a good night, Spock thought, hanging up, not as good as it could be, not until Jim was sharing his bed again. Four more days.

* * *

Of course, those days were filled with worse weather and even worse news. The heat wave choking the west held up, meaning the firefighters saw no relief even while the south was deluged. Missoula saw thick smoke that forced cancellations of outdoor events; more small towns were marked for evacuation. Through it all, Jim and his team reported from the ground, following the fire and rescue teams across the west-central stretch of Montana, mostly reporting on ground lost, property in danger, and poor weather conditions.

Then, on Thursday morning, a local sheriff’s office on the western border of Montana received a panicked call. Three hikers had become disoriented in the smoke and wandered off of what had been a dubiously safe path. Thinking they would find a quiet place for camping, they had instead become lost and were now bounded on all sides by fire.

Jim and his team sprung into action, reporting on each new announcement from the police station, tracking down local expert hiking guides, finding a few relatives to speak with, and even gathering footage from the helicopters flying overhead. By the time the sheriff’s office knew where to find the hikers, Jim’s team pretty much did, too, which meant that FWN had been reporting on their location even before the news broke that they’d been located. Locating them, however, was a far cry from actually helping them, and they waited most of the day to hear more news. Spock and T’Pring anchored most of the national coverage starting at noon that day just in case they had to break away for news on the hikers or in case there was an opportunity to interview any of the dozens of state and national officials they had called for comment on the story. After a particularly unhelpful five minute interview with the state’s lieutenant governor, Spock turned back to Jim, live at the scene, for a real update.

“So, we’re looking at, tomorrow, this area of high pressure will hold, which means more smoke, no rain, and really, no good news for western Montana and Eastern Idaho," Jim said. He was standing on a rocky hill, one hand on his hip, one arm gesturing behind him toward a towering smoke column from the uncontained wildfire. They’d already run his package on the ash piling up in town, the locals wearing masks sometimes even inside, the mayor talking about everything smelling like a campfire. McCoy would come up after the break to talk health effects, live from the main street of a nearby town, but now Spock had almost forty-five seconds to kill — more than Jim usually left him.

“And it sounds like that’s not good news for Austreville, either,” Spock said, pronouncing the town’s name exactly as he had practiced with Nyota that afternoon. “Jim, are they still pursuing a complete evacuation?”

“Just, ah, just on the east side, for now,” Jim said. “Level Three evacuations to the east of Main Street, which is mandatory go-now evac, and Level 2 on the other side, which means be ready to go. Really, though, we’ve seen a lot of cars filled up and heading out as the valley just continues to fill up with this smoke.”

His voice sounded strained, though his face stayed pretty blank. Spock asked the next expected question and wished he didn’t have to. “Has there been any word on the Eagle Highland campers? I know the sheriff’s office hasn’t had an official update since the last, yet.”

“No,” Jim said, shaking his head, “no updates, though we have heard that they lost cell phone contact with the campers within the last thirty minutes. Aerial footage still shows that fires haven’t reached the campground yet, but the area remains completely impassable on foot or by vehicle. As we reported earlier, the airdrop was likely not successful as winds are still keeping the helicopter support from getting near to the area. It seems they may have had one successful water dump earlier, but it’s hard to know for sure. With winds expected to pick up overnight, that’s still an extremely dangerous, life-threatening situation out there.”

“Are there any plans to try and reach the campers?”

“Right now, we understand that law enforcement officials are coordinating with the wildland firefighters to see if there’s any way to create even a narrow path through, but at last report, I don’t think there was a concrete plan that wouldn’t put more lives in danger.”

“Understood,” Spock murmured, knowing what Jim wasn’t saying: the three campers trapped by the raging wildfires would likely perish unless a miraculous shift in weather or fortunes arrived. “Thank you, Jim. We’ll check in now with Dr. Leonard McCoy, who is on Main Street in Austreville, where I understand dozens of people have gathered for more information despite treacherous outdoor conditions.”

“You got that right, Spock…” McCoy started, and a few minutes later they threw to his pre-recorded package on air quality in the area. Spock took that time to text Jim, though he wasn’t sure what to say. He knew Jim was taking the situation with the campers particularly hard, feeling that it had been a failure of both predictive forecasting and the county and state government that had led them to believe it would be safe to stay overnight instead of evacuating. Spock thought that the park leaders and local officials had actually done an excellent job in posting warnings about the extreme fire danger, and he doubted that these hikers had been tuned in to broadcast media anytime recently, but he was not going to mention that to Jim. Instead, he felt an expression of sympathy and concern would likely be better received, so he texted, _How are you?_

_Fine. The smoke’s getting to me._

That had been obvious from the broadcast, Spock thought. _When do you plan to evacuate?_

_That’s kind of a long story._

A production assistant signaled that he had thirty seconds remaining before air time. _One with a happy ending, I hope._

_I’ll keep you posted on that._

Spock stared at the message but couldn’t take the time to process it fully. He confirmed that McCoy would follow up after the package, giving him an extra thirty seconds to review the next segment, and then re-engaged in his work.

Twenty minutes later, when he handed off to the next hour’s anchors, he walked back to his desk before he remembered Jim’s message. As he waited for his computer to wake up, he wrote back: _What do you mean, precisely?_

_I’m not evacuating._

Spock stared at the message, but he couldn’t see any way he had misinterpreted it. _I do not understand._

The silence after that felt too long. Spock wasn’t actually sure that it was too long: their interactions at other times had ebbed and flowed, as messaging did over great distances between two people with busy jobs. Now, though, it felt like Jim trying to dodge an explanation — or maybe like Jim thinking that his earlier explanation had been enough.

Ten minutes, Spock thought. He would give Jim ten minutes, and then he would message again. In fact, it was likely better that he did not look at his phone until then, he decided, and left it tucked into his desk drawer while he went to the break room for coffee. T’Pring was there, pouring a cup of tea, and Spock nodded a greeting.

“Are we leading with storms in Georgia or the fires?” she asked.

Spock took a deep breath. “I do not know,” he said. “I would suspect the fires, if we can get a new package from the field.”

“Are you in contact with Kirk?”

“Off and on,” he said, and she nodded. “I will know by the meeting.”

“Very well.”

When he returned to his desk, mug in hand, he sat down calmly and pulled the phone out. Jim had sent three messages.

_No one is going for those campers._

_They had a route mapped but they can’t get through._

_Scotty says Enterprise will make it through OK._

Now, Spock’s brain shifted from silent confusion to ignited frustration and disbelief. T’Pring walked over to usher him toward their wrap-up meeting, but Spock shook his head. “Please begin without me,” he said, and stood. Though Jim’s team’s room was dark and likely open, Spock instead strode toward the hallway. He found a small conference room empty at the end of the hall and locked himself inside. He tapped call and barely let Jim say hello before he started speaking. “You are driving into an uncontrolled wildfire in your hurricane vehicle? Jim, this is madness, even for you and Mr. Scott.”

“It’s not that bad, really,” Jim said. “Scotty says the biggest danger is that the tires will melt, but even then, the run-flat design he put in will let them —“

“I am not interested in Mr. Scott’s pledges of technological wonder,” Spock said. “Driving into a fire is not safe, no matter how ‘souped up’ your Enterprise vehicle is. If it were safe, then the professionals would do it.”

“I am a professional,” Jim started, but Spock cut him off.

“You are a professional _weather journalist_ , not a firefighter or a rescue responder. Your job is to report the story, not become the story.”

“They’re going to leave them there to die!” Jim said, voice slightly too high and loud. “Right now, they’re up there, they think someone’s coming for them, and no one is. The fire crew here, they’ve already decided they can’t do it, it’s too risky, but, Jesus —“

“If they are saying it is too dangerous, you need to listen to them. They are —“

“They think someone’s coming because that’s what we’ve been telling them,” Jim said, and now his voice dropped almost to a whisper. “Fuck, I said it on air probably a dozen times, at least. And before you tell me they’re not watching TV, they’ve been broadcasting us on radio out here all day. I can’t stay here when there’s — there’s a chance that I could save them.”

Spock’s eyes had closed without him even noticing. His breath rushed in his chest. He could hear the conviction in Jim’s voice and already knew there was nothing else he could do. Like Jim, though, he couldn’t stop trying. “Have you spoken with McCoy?” he asked.

“He, ah. No. He knows we’re past the evac line but thinks we’re closer to town. I didn’t want to worry him.”

“How nice for him,” Spock said. The conference room had chairs, but they were all stacked against the wall, so Spock allowed himself to slowly slide to the ground, sitting with his knees bent before him. An unusually long silence stretched between them. Spock swallowed. “I wish you would not go.”

“It’s going to be OK,” Jim said, almost tenderly. “We have the map from the fire crew. It shouldn’t take more than, like, 10-12 minutes to get to the campsite, we’ll load them, we’ll come right back down.”

Spock, of course, knew better than this. He knew that any path the fire crew had sketched out would be their best guess, but that it wouldn’t be a guarantee. The campers were located near an abandoned outlook station, and at last report, they had taken shelter in an outbuilding in the center of the clearing to be out of the wind and smoke. Fire was creeping in from all sides. “There will be downed trees.”

“Probably,” Jim said. Spock heard a noise over the line, the white-noise rush of a phone changing to speaker. “But we’ve got the pusher on the front.”

“Don’t you worry at all, Dr. Grayson,” Scott’s voice roared up. “We’ll be heading back down the mountain in no time.”

Spock swallowed. “Are you — you’re already on your way.”

“Halfway to the fire line,” Jim said. Spock could hear, now, static crackling down the line. He tried not to associate it with the sound of fire. “We’ll be fine. I’ll call you the minute we’re back down.”

“We’ll send video!” Scott said, and Spock winced.

“An hour, OK? Give me an hour,” Jim said. “Spock —“

“One hour,” Spock said, and then he cut their connection. He set his phone on his knee and stared at it, the way that its black surface melted into the black slacks he had worn on air today. He had chosen a somber outfit, prepared to relay bad news from the fires and the storms about to tear through the southeastern U.S. After all, this was his job: to report on the worst the weather could throw at them.

The phone buzzed beneath his fingers once, then twice. He exhaled in a hard bust, then picked it up. Two new messages waited.

Nyota: _Are you ever coming to this meeting or what?_

Jim: _Don’t be mad. I love you. Talk soon._

Spock put his head down on his arm, closed his eyes, and wished for one moment that he could still pray. Around him, the air felt too cool, too mechanically clean, and he held his breath against it for a moment and thought only of Jim saying, “Spock —“ before he had hung up.

Then he stood up, slid the phone back into his pocket, and walked back outside. He allowed himself a detour to fetch a fresh cup of coffee, which stretched longer as he had to brew a fresh pot. The time was good, though, and allowed him to get his swirling emotions under control. There was nothing he could do to help Jim at the moment, and no amount of thinking about what he might be enduring would make the time pass more quickly. Spock took a few deep breaths, tried to center himself, and then gave up and turned to coffee. With a fresh mug, he walked into the conference room. “I apologize —“ he began, but then he realized that none of his team were paying any attention to him. They were staring, instead, at Nyota’s laptop, which had a jerky camera image of burning, moving ground.

“Oh, no,” Spock said.

T’Pring looked up. “Do you know what this is?”

“A livestream from Mr. Scott, I presume,” Spock said. His voice sounded vaguely unsteady, and he coughed to clear it, but had nothing more to say. On the camera, it looked like the truck was driving through dusk, the air was so clogged with smoke. Orange flames leapt from every side, even hovering above the truck as it bounced down the path. Though he had seen countless hours of footage sent back from burning forests, fields, and even property, this was the single most terrifying video Spock had ever witnessed — mostly because he could hear Jim’s voice in the background, occasionally, assenting to Scott’s directions or issuing quiet curses.

“Spock, sit down,” Nyota said, and a hand gripped his elbow, suddenly, guiding him toward a chair. As he moved, the video disappeared from Nyota’s computer, and Spock jerked forward in his seat. “It’s OK,” Nyota said, and she pointed up at the television screen at the end of the table. Now, the video streamed there, in grand, high-definition detail. The fire looked worse, Spock thought, but he couldn’t make himself turn away.

“Is this live on the network feed?” he asked, wondering if the control room was receiving the same broadcast. He didn’t think the network would put this straight on the air, not with such a high potential for fatality, but he was, sadly, not completely certain. Just the idea of Jim and Scott…

“Actually, no,” Nyota said, her fingers flying over her keyboard. “Scotty sent it to me in IM, like a private thing. I don’t know if they’ve shared it with anyone. I’m recording it, too, just in case…” She stopped.

“In case the tape is ruined,” Spock said, “by the fire that may well yet engulf their entire vehicle. Thank you, I am aware of the risks involved.”

“Have you talked to him?” she asked, quietly.

“Yes.”

Stonn rested one hand on Spock’s shoulder, a surprising display of care. “Perhaps you should consider… being elsewhere.”

“That would be logical,” Spock said, “but I will remain.”

Jim was driving, if the motion could be called that. It was more like a carnival ride, bouncing, darting, the path in front of them a mere suggestion. They never stopped moving, but their motion sometimes seemed circular as they puzzled out the best approach to take. Four minutes into the video, Jim swore particularly vehemently, and Spock squinted at the screen. A large, smoldering tree trunk blocked the path before them.

“No way around it,” Scott said, voice hyper with excitement or fear.

“Yup,” Jim said.

“She can make it.”

“Better hope so,” Jim said, and then the vehicle’s speed picked up perceptibly. When it struck the tree an explosion of sparks and wood chips rained around them like a star field, and Spock shuddered, heard a loud gasp that wasn’t quite his own. Nyota had both hands over her mouth, and Stonn had stood and edged toward the screen. They heard Scott’s yelp of triumph before the screen had even completely cleared.

“I love this truck!” he shouted.

“Shut up, shut up,” Jim said, the view careening wildly, implying that steering had become a struggle. Spock gripped the table so hard he was surprised to see his fingers hadn’t left indentations. “Gonna get through. We’re gonna make it,” he said, as if to himself.

Two grueling minutes later, they arrived, abruptly, into a clearing, obvious only because the light suddenly became a degree brighter. Jim drove right up to a green metal shed, honking the horn in terrifying blasts as he did. “Come on, come on,” he said, and then the vehicle shuddered to a stop. A moment later, Spock could see him on the outward-facing camera, racing out in front of the Enterprise toward the small shack. He held his breath. If they had done all of this, only to find the hikers already dead…

The door swung open, and a thin, disheveled man stumbled out. Spock exhaled in a heavy rush, then watched as he and Jim talked, the man gesturing to the shed several times, both men pausing to cough into the crooks of their arms. Scott appeared on camera and took the man’s arm over his shoulders, and then Jim disappeared into the shed.

When he emerged less than a minute later, he had stripped down to his undershirt. A torn half of his T-shirt was now tied around his face, like a mask, and the other half lay over the face of the person he was carrying. Another hiker followed on foot, dragging a single backpack, and they made their slow way across the screen like a three-footed elephant, stumbling but determined. They disappeared from view and Spock took a breath, almost surprised to find clear air surrounding him. When Jim slid back into the driver’s seat, he was talking rapidly, the words breaking up over their tenuous connection.

“— Should get back — water there — we’ll radio when — clear again.”

The image whirled, suddenly, and there was the fire again, the trees glittering with it as they returned to the treacherous road. They were back at the broken trunk soon, and this time, the truck seemed to briefly stall as they ran over it. “Scotty,” Jim said.

“We can try the towing gear but it might burn the transmission out —“

“Just do it!”

The truck lurched, growling, and then finally jumped forward, free of the debris and back onto the path. Jim whooped, and Scott laughed, but they soon settled back into silence. The embers fell around them like rain, and twice the camera’s vision whited-out as a tree exploded just beyond them. They heard Jim say, almost as though to himself, “Well, hell,” and then the van rocked. The camera blinked once, twice; the screen flashed white, then went dark.

There was nothing on the screen.

Nothing.

No Jim.

Nyota pounded on her keyboard, pleading with the computer to refresh. Stonn checked the cables to the television, then offered his own laptop as a replacement. But Spock knew, somehow, knew that this wasn’t a technical issue on their end. The Enterprise had lost its camera signal, perhaps just because they’d sustained damage to the satellite mechanisms. Perhaps, though, the signal had been lost because the conditions had grown worse, and —

And Jim couldn’t drive —

And they were —

Spock couldn’t quite complete the thought. He sat there as his team, his friends, tried everything to make a miracle happen. He looked at his phone, the screen dark, the light still. No new messages. The last would be from Jim: _Don’t be mad. I love you. Talk soon._

Spock hadn’t even texted back.

The room around him slowly descended into silence, permeated only by the whirs of three computers trying and failing to connect with Scott’s feed. Spock cleared his throat, and T’Pring was the only one who met his eyes. “We should —“ he started, but then had to clear his throat again. “We should prepare for air.”

Nyota shook her head. “Spock —“ she started, voice tender, but Spock shook his head.

“What do you need?” T’Pring asked, voice quiet and firm.

“I need everyone to continue performing admirably,” Spock said, looking from face to face. Nyota had tears in her eyes; Stonn could barely meet his gaze. Only T’Pring looked at him, really looked, and when she nodded, he understood that she thought this was the best plan. They would go on air and do their planned hour-long show reviewing the day’s major events and predicting tomorrow’s, because it was their job.

“Do we mention this?” T’Pring asked.

“If we have something to report, then we will report it,” Spock said, standing, ignoring the shaky feeling in his legs. “Until then, I believe we must go with our last update as the most current.”

The last update was Jim’s afternoon media package on the conditions and dangers for the trapped hikers. It would be fine to replay it, but a bit strange without Jim to throw to immediately after air. Spock didn’t want to think about that, so instead, he divided up tasks. Stonn would find the latest reports on the weather system in the southeast; Nyota would find at least two lively packages to fill the middle section. T’Pring would run through the call list to see who they might be able to talk to live on the air from either the storm fields in Georgia and Florida or from near the fire. “Should I call Dr. McCoy?” she asked.

“No,” Spock said, then paused. _I didn’t want to worry him_. “I’m sorry. He would be a logical choice. Please do.”

She nodded and left as swiftly as the rest of the team had, leaving Spock briefly alone in the conference room with the still-on, still blank television set. He glanced again at his phone. Nothing. He had forty minutes to prepare for being on air.

McCoy called 15 minutes before Spock was due to be live, his voice shaking with either fury or fear. “You knew about this?” he shouted.

“I did,” Spock said, calmly accepting a new tie from the wardrobe runner.

“And you’re — you know they’re missing, they could be — they’re out there somewhere, and you’re just… going on television like normal?”

“That is my job, Doctor.” Spock managed to loop the tie on and tie it while still talking to McCoy. It required enough concentration that his own voice stayed steady. “If you believe that they would be better served by my roaming the halls weeping, I would of course bow to your professional expertise.”

“You cold blooded —“

“Thank you,” Spock said, and clicked off in time to accept the final run sheet from T’Pring.

The phone call stood out more clearly than any part of the next half-hour, in which Spock ably introduced several different on-location anchors reporting on storms and other towns threatened by fire, two media packages about what appeared to be a Christmas-in-August celebration and a windsurfing competition, and conducted a phone interview with the sheriff of the county north of where Jim had last checked in. He remembered Nyota telling him, at the break, that he looked fine, steady, and that T’Pring used the word “competent” to describe his demeanor.

What he remembered most was the buzz of his phone in his pocket during the 40s.

A bright-eyed blond was standing on a beach somewhere, talking about surf height and potential, and Spock had no idea his name or even which coast he was on. His phone had buzzed. Jim. “That’s interesting. Perhaps you could explain the normal conditions for our viewers without much experience in the area,” Spock said. He saw Brad — or Chad? — beam and launch into a lengthy spiel about the outer banks and wind shear. Spock couldn’t read the chyron below his name, but he could read the teleprompter well enough to know he’d given Grady (close) more time than he should have. “We’ll have to leave it there," he said. “Thank you, Grady, for that knowledgeable report. Now, we’re going to turn to T’Pring on the Lab Deck with a prediction for tomorrow. T’Pring?”

She took the throw smoothly and began her report, repeating some information that Spock had asked for earlier. He didn’t care. The camera was off of him for a full three minutes, and he could pull his phone out and look. They were asked to sometimes Tweet during the broadcast, so it wouldn’t even look strange.

The light blinked. Definitely a message. He unlocked the screen and paused. It could be anything: even his dry cleaner sent the occasional text. It could be Sybok, Karen, anyone. The message light blinked again, and he tapped the tiny envelope.

It was Jim: _We’re ok. Headed to hospital but ok. Will call when i can._

Spock exhaled so loudly it made him remember where he was. The cameras were focused on him but not live. He texted back, _Please be safe,_ meaning it as a command and a prayer, and then slid his phone under a stack of script pages on the desk and went back to work.

When the cameras turned off, Spock stripped off his microphone and stood. Normally, he stayed at the desk until his replacement was seated, making sure there would be a seamless transition, but tonight he couldn’t be there, not for one second longer. He walked directly from the anchor chair, slipping past a waiting Chekov, to his desk. Stonn and T’Pring stood there, conversing in low tones with Nyota, seated at her computer. She looked up. “Have you heard —“

“They are out of danger,” Spock said, and his team seemed to collectively sigh with relief. “They are en route to the hospital. I do not have other details at this time.” In fact, he thought, he should try to find more details, and he pulled out his phone. Both McCoy and Scott had tried to contact him. McCoy’s text messages consisted of three strings of creative profanity and then a short message that offered the name of the hospital to where Jim was headed.

Scott’s missed call was accompanied by a voice mail message. “Ah, sorry to disturb, you might be on the air, but — I wanted you to know, we’re all right. Jim’s all right, just a wee bit worse for the wear. We had a minor, very minor, malfunction — hardly even that — and our window broke a bit, but the doctors are sayin’ he’ll be just fine. They, there’s a surgeon who seems a right good sort, think he’s in giving Jim a look now. No more than a day, two tops in the hospital. Should be fine! It was quite a thing, but he still managed to get us through, he did, and the hikers should be A-OK too. You can give me a call here if you need anything, ah, they took Jim’s phone away when he went back. All right, that’s, ah, all.”

Spock stared at the phone’s screen, uncertain of what to do next. Jim didn’t have his phone, and Spock wasn’t ready to talk with Scott, not at that speed, but he needed to know. He managed a short message to McCoy. _Details on his condition?_

_Have a call in to local hospital but doubt they’ll tell me anything._

_Did Scott specify the type of injury?_

_Burns, McCoy wrote._

Spock took a slow breath, trying to stay calm. Around him, the newsroom buzzed as efficiently as ever. The staff was already preparing for the next hour’s news, a show on which Spock was tentatively scheduled to appear. It occurred to him then to wonder whether the rescue had yet caught any other news attention, and he turned to his staff. “Has there been word elsewhere?”

“Nothing, so far,” Stonn said. “We’ve tracked the news networks, both ours and the others, and everyone’s still mostly saying the hikers are trapped but not much else. The sheriff’s office has a scheduled press briefing in an hour.”

That, Spock figured, was when they would find out how this story would go. Perhaps the sheriff would give a bland update stating the hikers had been rescued; perhaps he would celebrate Jim and Scott for their efforts; perhaps he would castigate their carelessness. Spock noticed, then, that Nyota’s screen had a frozen frame from the video Scott had sent earlier. He looked at his staff, none of whom were meeting his eye. “You are considering whether to prepare this video for air?”

“Not really,” Nyota said.

“In the event that it was needed to explain Kirk’s absence,” T’Pring said, “we felt it best to be a step ahead.”

That was logical, of course, and Spock was mildly embarrassed he hadn’t thought of it himself. However, with the event over, he was not at all sure that Jim’s wild ride deserved broader attention. “I do not believe it would be advantageous to share that video with anyone here,” Spock said.

Stonn shook his head. “This rescue will be news. We were running hourly coverage on the hikers. The method of rescue would be news whether our staff were involved or not. That they were…”

“That they were involved,” Spock said, “is likely to cause all manner of ethical issues.” Stonn stared at him, and Spock understood that this was not a casual conversation. This was something that had to be dealt with right away. At least it would give him some tangible work to focus on while waiting for further news from Jim. “I will call upstairs to clarify our role in this. Until we hear from him, I advise you not to share that video with anyone or to tell anyone else about its existence.”

Nyota closed her laptop. “Noted,” she said. “Are you going home?”

Yes, Spock thought. That was exactly what he wanted to do, to leave the building and spend the rest of his night sending regular messages to McCoy, Scott, and with any luck, Jim. He wanted to get on a phone or, better, get in a cab, get to the airport. But it felt somehow like a weakness to admit this, so instead, he said, “I will stay here until we have established what is required for reporting on this.” Then, seeing that the team all looked surprised and worried about this, he asked, “T’Pring, are you amenable to taking my place in the evening broadcasts?”

“Of course.”

“Thank you. Please keep me posted on anything you hear about this… situation.”

Stonn and T’Pring both peeled off, then, to attend to the nightly newscast, though Spock caught their side-long glances. He understood they thought he was being unreasonable, and perhaps he was, but broadcasting the raw video of Jim and Scott nearly dying — it felt like a betrayal, somehow. It felt wrong. He hoped it felt that way for better reasons than that he never wanted to watch the video again.

Before he would let himself text McCoy for an update, Spock made himself call Harrison, though his head had begun to pound with tension. The low, “Ah, Spock, hello,” after only two rings was a surprise.

“Hello,” Spock said. “I expected to reach your assistant.”

“I prefer to answer my own calls when possible,” he said. “I find it makes it easier to dispatch quickly with all but the rarest problems. Should I count you among the rare few?”

“Perhaps,” Spock said. He glanced over at where Nyota was very, very slowly packing her things. “Could I trouble you with a question about a, ah, rather unorthodox video we’ve obtained?”

“I like the sound of that. Do, please,” he said, and hung up.

Spock looked at Nyota. “Would you be willing to accompany me to see John Harrison?”

She narrowed her eyes. “Just me, or me and my video that you just told me not to show anyone else?”

“You are both invited,” Spock assured her. “And afterwards, I would be happy to have my car deliver you both home.”

When she stood, she rested her hands on her hips. “Moral support?”

“If you like.”

“All right.”

As they rode the elevator up to Harrison’s office, Nyota stared at him for a moment. “Spock,” she started. He kept his eyes rigidly forward, and in the mirrored surface, he saw her shake her head, as though deciding not to speak. He was glad. He did not want to talk about Jim, about this evening, about any of this. Not yet. For now, there was work.

In Harrison’s office, the conversation was surprisingly brief. “So what you’re saying,” Harrison said, voice hovering between a purr and a growl, “is that you have video evidence of one of our employees defying a legal evacuation order and endangering himself, a contractor, three civilians, and thousands of dollars of network property, and you are uncertain as to whether the news value inherent in the film outweighs the ethical and, quite possibly, legal ramifications of releasing it.”

Spock tipped his head as he considered the words. “Yes.”

Harrison steepled his fingers together, his pale blue eyes darting as he watched the muted video. “Release it if it’s relevant. We can deal with the other complications, but suppressing the tape isn’t likely to help anyone’s cause.” He sat back and gave Spock a slow smile. “I hope you’ll keep me updated, personally.”

“Of course.”

Spock felt conflicted about Harrison’s answer, which he told Nyota as they left Harrison’s office. She gave him a long look. “You aren’t seriously thinking about rejecting the advice of that terrifying lawyer, are you?”

“Not rejecting, per se,” Spock said. “But I admit some complex feelings about whether the tape should be aired.”

“Spock, it’s totally newsworthy, which you know,” Nyota said. “If it wasn’t Jim —“

Spock raised an eyebrow at this. When they stepped on to the elevator, heading back to their floor, he waited for the doors to close, then said, “You believe I am emotionally compromised in this matter.”

“Yeah,” she said, “and you do, too, or you would if you thought about it for ten seconds.”

He shook his head. “I do not believe it is in the best interest of the network or the public to know how the rescue was affected.”

“Maybe not,” Nyota said, “but it’s what happened. And if Scott sent it to anyone else, it’s going to get out anyway.”

“Perhaps.” The doors opened, and they walked across the newsroom. Spock had begun to fantasize about picking up his bag and leaving immediately, but he was stopped along the way by the sight of Karen Komack loitering at his desk. Nyota touched his arm in sympathy before walking in front of him back to their sections.

“Karen,” Spock greeted her. She looked dressed up, wearing tall thin heels and sparkling gem earrings, as though she’d come straight from a dinner party, though it was not yet 7 p.m.

“Have you heard much about this mess with Kirk?” she asked.

“I believe I am up to date,” Spock said.

She shook her head. “I can’t believe this guy. Charges into a fucking forest fire against everyone’s advice, nearly gets everyone killed, and manages to come out looking like a hero.” Her arms were crossed tightly over her sweater dress. Spock fought the urge to adjust his own tie. “Dad’s ecstatic about it, of course.”

“I see.” Nyota had disappeared. “Is there something you would like from me?”

“I need someone on the ground out there. Some adult supervision,” she said, rolling her eyes. “I know it’s late and it’s not what you had planned, but — can you fly out to Montana tonight?” Karen rested a hand on his shoulder and rubbed. “I know it’s a terrible favor to ask.”

Spock felt like someone was suddenly squeezing his stomach. The chance to see Jim, to be on the ground with his team, filled him with hope and dread in equal parts. Doing so under the guise of work — or under the pressure of actually being there professionally — would be complicated. “If that is what is required, of course.”

“I knew I could count on you,” she said, squeezing his shoulder again. “I’ll have Alice set up the flights and e-mail everything over in a minute.” As she left, the impression of her fingernails remained on his skin.

“I feel like I’ve watched you endure textbook HR-reportable harassment twice in the last hour,” Nyota said as she returned with Stonn, T’Pring, and Chekov in tow. “What was that about?”

Spock looked down at his desk, where his messenger bag waited. “I am to fly to Montana tonight to oversee coverage on the ground,” he said.

“Unaccompanied?”

He hadn’t even thought to ask, but it seemed reasonable that he would not go alone. They quickly arranged for T’Pring to accompany him that night, with Chekov joining them in the morning, ostensibly to provide broader possible coverage and production assistance. Stonn hurried to make arrangements for air that evening. Forty minutes later, they were in a car headed to the airport, having raided wardrobe and their own go-bags for the most critical supplies. Spock thought once, briefly, of the bag waiting in his apartment, which he had begun to pack for Baltimore, and then he forced the thought away.

T’Pring was silent on the drive, which Spock appreciated. His adrenaline rush had faded, and the discipline that had allowed him to function professionally through the last few hours was in tatters. He now felt a gnawing disquiet in his stomach. Neither McCoy nor Scott had sent any follow up messages, and Spock had decided against alerting McCoy directly to their impending arrival. The network would take care of that.

They landed at ten local time, after a running-through-the-airport layover in Minneapolis. By then, Spock had cycled through three distinct emotional states: dread of succumbing to openly emotional behavior at work; worry and fear for Jim’s safety; and a slow, building anger that the entire situation had even come to pass.

Despite the late hour, hot air assaulted them as they walked out of the airport, tinged with the scent of wood smoke. T’Pring wrinkled her nose and directed a porter toward a car in the line. Spock wondered how she had identified it — and then he recognized the shaggy-haired individual standing at its bumper.

“Be nice,” T’Pring said, her hand pressing firmly against his elbow.

“We are in public,” Spock confirmed, and then followed her over to greet Montgomery Scott.

“Ah, hello, Dr. Grayson, T’Pring,” Scott said, running a hand over his head. He had a long red scratch over one eyebrow, and Spock stared at it. Was it a burn? Some remnant of the breaking glass he had mentioned earlier?

“Mr. Scott,” Spock said, nodding. He turned to tip the courier and let T’Pring take the front seat in the car. Scott was already trying to explain that they would head first to the broadcast center set up at a local hotel, but T’Pring firmly corrected him.

“We will go to the hospital first,” she said. “You may take me to the broadcast set up after that.”

Spock caught Scott’s glance in the rearview mirror, and he held it. Suddenly, it felt important to him that Scott understand what he was feeling, here, that he wasn’t a concerned colleague or casual friend. He wanted him to know that Jim was _his_ , his partner, that their stunt had nearly cost Spock something precious and irreplaceable. So he gazed steadily back and said, “I would see Jim before anything else.”

“OK. It’s just — about that.” Scott turned in his seat.

A car behind them honked, and T’Pring threw her door open. She walked around and knocked on Scott’s window a moment later, and Scott climbed out. “I would not have him kill us all before we arrive,” she said, strapping in. When Scott sat in the passenger’s seat a moment later, she said, “I feared for my life were you about to attempt driving while telling Spock some reason that we cannot immediately deliver him to Jim Kirk’s bedside.”

“It is a fair concern,” Spock said, and watched Scott swallow.

“Look, I was — Dr. McCoy asked, he was gonna be the one to tell you, and I told him it wouldn’t work because you’re ruddy observant, aren’t you, but anyway: technically Jim isn’t in the hospital anymore.”

“Technically?”

T’Pring had already pulled into traffic. “Supply the address of where he actually is,” she said, and Scott punched a few numbers into the navigation system.

“That is a hotel. He is at your broadcast center?”

“He’s not working,” Scott said, holding up both hands. “I don’t know the whole story, but McCoy and Jim came back after about an hour or so at the hospital and they swore everybody to secrecy about the entire affair.”

Spock stared ahead at the highway before them, which swiftly emptied as they moved further from the small airport. “This bodes well,” he murmured, and watched T’Pring nod in the front seat. In some ways, of course, it did: If Jim was feeling well enough to be causing trouble, he was clearly out of immediate danger. Then again, if he had left the hospital against medical advice, that promised a different kind of danger.

“There was kind of dust-up about it at the hospital. The doctors really didn’t want him to go. They even called his mother, if you can believe it!”

A lone car drove in the opposing lane, lights on too bright. Spock shielded his eyes. “Jim’s mother?”

“Aye,” Scott said. “I can’t say as whether they actually got through, but it tells you how determined they were.”

Spock felt a stinging pressure beginning to build in his forehead. “Do you know other details of his injuries?”

Scott nodded, swiftly. “‘Course, I was there, wasn’t I? He got a nasty burn on one arm and maybe a bit across his chest when a great bloody tree fell over the windshield. A limb poked right through the front window — and I’ll be having some strong words with the lady who engineered our glass, let me tell you! Anyway, this limb, it slams through just right here.” He pointed to a place on their own windshield just beyond the rear view mirror, to the driver’s side. “Didn’t catch anyone, but it was on fire. Jim beat it out with his jacket, managed to swerve and get the tree off the hood, and then after we got her restarted, he drove most of the rest of the way with his head out the window to see.” Scott was beaming, his grin wide and proud. “Practically landed us at the foot of the county sheriff coming out of the blaze.”

“How did that go over?”

Scott shrugged. “Had to get Jim to the hospital, so we didn’t get a chance to chat with those fine officers of the law.”

“I see.”

Forty awkward and mostly silent minutes later, they found McCoy at the broadcast center, which was just a grand word for a conference room where Jim’s team had dumped their things. Some of bags in the hallway smelled of smoke, and one had visible water damage. Spock pulled his carry-on bag past them carefully and into the room where McCoy was yelling into his cell phone.

“— Want us to get on the goddamned air then you’re gonna deal with the fucking consequences. No one here has slept in three days and half of them are asthmatic from the exposure, and we’re down our best anchor, our engineer, and the entire equipment truck, so unless you’re air-mailing us some talent —“

“Ahem,” Spock said, and McCoy turned. His face went through a complicated series of expressions, landing back at murderously angry, and he hung up the phone without saying anything.

“You,” he said, and then, without moving his eyes from Spock, nodded to T’Pring. “Ma’am.”

“Leonard,” T’Pring said, as though he wasn’t currently looking ready to strike, “who might I speak to for a logical summary of where things stand? Please feel free not to include yourself as a candidate for this job.”

McCoy sighed and ran a hand through his hair. A streak of something black marred his forehead. “Chapel, I guess,” he said. “She was in the bar last time I looked.”

“Thank you.” T’Pring looked at Spock and raised an eyebrow. “May I trust that no violence will occur in my absence?”

“You should perhaps take Mr. Scott with you,” Spock said, and T’Pring nodded. Scott was sentenced to baggage carrying and was bundled out with her, leaving just Spock and McCoy in the room. It smelled like sweat and smoke, like burnt coffee and wet clothing. Spock could not see a single surface that would be safe for sitting, so he closed the door and then leaned against it.

“So. You’re here.”

Spock nodded. “Observant as always, Dr. McCoy.”

“Spare me,” McCoy said, and when he ran a hand over his face, the black mark smudged. Ash? “Does Jim know you’re here?”

“No.” McCoy’s eyes narrowed, and Spock met his gaze. “Mr. Scott mentioned that Jim had left the hospital against medical advice.”

“Oh, yeah.”

“May I -“ His voice cracked, and Spock swallowed. “May I see him?”

The silence dragged on for a moment, and Spock took a few slow breaths. It surprised him when McCoy’s hand fell on his shoulder. “You look like shit,” he said, squeezing too hard. “Come on. I need to get out of here anyway.”

He let McCoy lead him into the hallway and then up a flight of stairs. This floor was quieter, a typical hotel floor in the middle of the night. They walked to a room labeled Lolo Suite, and McCoy used a key card to enter. “I’m trying to keep the rest of the crew from knowing exactly where he is,” McCoy said, shrugging. “Least I can do is restrict visitors.”

Spock nodded. The suite before him had a long, narrow living room, a mini kitchen, and a flat screen television. A bedroom door was open a few inches, and McCoy walked over and pushed through it into the dark room. Spock followed, slowly, feeling awkward and stiff and anxious.

Jim lay inside on the king-sized bed, shirtless, a white sheet draped over the lower half of his body. He had a long red mark across his chest that glistened with some kind of ointment. His right arm was bandaged loosely and lying on a pillow; a blue gel pack lay nearby. His face was dirt-streaked, his hair rubbed through with black soot. Both of his eyes were red-lidded and bruised, and his lips were cracked. He looked horrible, Spock thought, stunned by his own reaction; he barely managed not to gasp. As McCoy stepped closer, Jim’s tongue darted out, licking ineffectually, and his eyes opened slowly. “Bones?”

“I brought you a present,” McCoy said, lifting the plastic bottle of water next to the bed. He held it up as though gauging what had been consumed.

“Is it more pain meds? I’d dig that.”

“In a way,” McCoy said, and he gestured behind him. Spock stepped slowly into the room, feeling strangely nervous. “Might take your mind off of it, at least.”

Jim’s eyes fluttered closed, then open. He looked over as Spock moved near the bed. “Hey.” Jim’s voice was dry and rough. His eyes looked cloudy. Pain medication, Spock surmised, moving to the side of the bed opposite McCoy.

“Hello.”

Jim’s right hand patted the open space on the bed beside him, and Spock carefully sat down. The bed barely moved, made from thick, cheap motel foam, but Jim seemed to wince anyway. His hand lifted and reached for Spock’s, and Spock took it, surprised to find it cold. Jim’s grip was weak. “Spock. Hi.” He licked his lips again. “Saw you on TV.”

Spock glanced at McCoy. It seemed impossible that Jim had actually seen any part of the evening’s broadcast. McCoy shrugged. “They replay the show for Mountain Time, I guess.”

“Looked good,” Jim said. “Always look good.”

“I wish I could say the same for you,” Spock said, and Jim’s cheek twitched as though he had tried to smile. “Are you able to drink something?”

McCoy handed over a plastic cup with a straw poking out, and Spock guided it to Jim’s mouth. Jim frowned as he drank. “Tastes bad.”

“Because you filled your sinuses full of smoke, princess,” McCoy said. “Your food’s gonna taste like the worst kind of barbecue for the next few days.”

“He’s hard on me,” Jim said, blinking over at Spock.

Spock nodded. He didn’t know what to say, faced with this docile, doped version of Jim. What he wanted most was to wrap himself around Jim, listen to his heart beat and his lungs expand, feel the smooth expanse of his unburnt skin below his cheek. Barring that, he wouldn’t have minded a moment’s peace to have a small, respectable, and completely private breakdown. Instead, he cupped Jim’s uninjured hand with both of his own and looked down, memorizing the wounds on his body.

“Sorry,” Jim murmured.

“Do not speak if you do not have the energy,” Spock said.

“Yeah.” Jim’s eyes blinked slowly, heavily shut. “Stick around?”

“Of course.”

Spock looked up at McCoy, who was staring at him with both eyebrows raised. “You want a drink or something? Coffee? Tea?”

“I would appreciate some water,” Spock said. When McCoy had left to get it, Spock carefully removed his shoes, then pulled himself fully on to the bed. He leaned back against the headboard, and Jim shifted slightly, his injured arm barely moving but his head nestling right against Spock’s thigh.

“Glad you came," Jim said, voice thick with sleep.

“I love you, too,” Spock said, very softly, touching Jim’s hair with one gentle hand.


	19. Chapter 19

McCoy let him stay. Spock dozed at one point, Jim warm and safe beside him. They both woke when Jim turned in his sleep and then yelped in pain. “Shit, shit,” he said, hissing, half sitting up and holding his arm at the elbow.

Spock turned on the beside lamp, not sure what had happened. The gauze over Jim’s wound had been brushed aside, and Spock got his first look at the angry red and white blisters covering Jim’s skin. Burns extended from the middle of his biceps down to mid-forearm in a wide, jagged swath. A flaming branch, Spock thought, suddenly nauseated. “What do you need?” he whispered.

“Don’t know. Fuck. Sorry. It hurts,” he said, breathing hard through his nose. Spock shifted so that Jim could lean back against him. He still smelled like smoke. Around them, the room was oppressively silent and too dark.

“Should I get Dr. McCoy?”

Jim took a deep breath, coughed, then took another, and finally nodded. “Yeah. Thank you.” Spock helped him ease back onto the bed, then walked into the outer room. He had not expected to find McCoy there, figuring the doctor had probably returned to the downstairs conference room to shout at other doubtlessly deserving network employees, but there he was: stretched out on the couch, watching the television on mute.

He looked up at Spock. “He’s awake?”

Spock nodded. “I believe he is in substantial pain.”

“Yeah. That’s gonna be true for a few days,” McCoy said. He pulled himself up, slowly, and then rummaged through a carry on bag at his feet. “Get him to drink some water if you can.”

Jim was awake for about an hour and in considerable discomfort the entire time. Nothing Spock did made much difference. McCoy offered him some kind of pain medication and redressed his wound, then settled it again on the pillow and refreshed his ice pack. “These meds basically knock him out,” McCoy said, standing at the foot of the bed when, finally, Jim began to softly snore. “Sleeping is about the only good pain relief he’s gonna get.”

Spock followed McCoy back into the living room and took a seat in the armchair, facing the muted television. Jim’s drawn face lingered in Spock’s mind. “What can you tell me about his injuries?”

“Second-degree burns,” he said. “Would’ve been worse, but he wrapped his jacket around the goddamned flaming tree before he picked it up, which is what goes for self-preservation when you’re stupid Jim Kirk.”

Normally, Spock felt McCoy’s rants against Jim were unfairly negative; at that moment, however, he nodded. “Should he be in the hospital?”

“Why?” McCoy’s eyes narrowed. “You two didn’t go get married when I wasn’t looking, did you? Because if you’ve got power of attorney or something, I would love to get his ass committed.”

“No, unfortunately, I do not have that power,” Spock said. “Is that where he should be?”

McCoy sighed. “They could manage his pain better than I can, probably, and they’d have better drugs on hand if he did get an infection, but there’s not much beyond that. It’s a bad burn, but it’s not serious enough to warrant skin grafts.”

“Small mercies,” Spock said. He wished suddenly to be home, standing in his own kitchen, perhaps, where it would have been completely acceptable to take out a bottle of wine, even though it was the middle of the night. Perhaps this showed on his face, because McCoy suddenly grunted and stood up, then returned from the mini fridge with two beers.

“I know it’s not your drink of choice,” he said, “but let’s call these desperate times, shall we?”

They drank silently for a while, and then McCoy tapped up the volume on the television slightly and they watched the headline news on their own network for a while. Spock’s phone chimed at the hour, when McCoy was stretching and apparently considering the wisdom of a second drink. _Are you available to meet?_ T’Pring texted.

Spock sent her the suite number, and five minutes later, she breezed in and took the beer McCoy had just gotten for himself. Though it was nearly 3 a.m. local time, she had the air of someone who was in the middle of a busy, productive day. “I will need you to speak with the sheriff tomorrow morning,” she said, looking at Spock. She sat on the edge of the couch, and McCoy sat at the other end, a new beer in his hand.

“Oh?”

She nodded. “I will be on air. They want someone senior to the network. Pardon me, Leonard, for purposely not volunteering your name when asked who might be a reasonable representative of our interests.”

“I’m not sure whether I’m insulted or in love,” McCoy said.

“Why does the sheriff want to meet with me?”

“Because Dr. Kirk and Mr. Scott may have broken the law during their daring rescue,” she said. “I believe he requires some sign that we are taking the situation seriously.”

McCoy sat back, his arm stretching along the couch but not too close to T’Pring. “Well, if it’s serious they want, I can’t imagine going wrong with Spock.”

Which is how, the next morning, Spock wound up walking into the Austre County Sheriff’s office.

Jim did not sleep well, which meant Spock did not sleep. The next day at 9 a.m., that meant that one of them was resting comfortably under the influence of heavy narcotics, while the other was drinking the last dregs of a deplorable cup of hotel lobby coffee while approaching a set of commercial glass doors with SHERIFF’S OFFICE stenciled in fading gold. It did not seem entirely fair.

The local sheriff was not the burly mountain man Spock had assumed he would meet but, instead, a thin, middle-aged man with a reddish beard and a weary air. He led Spock back to his office, a cramped space with a desk heaped with paper. An old, thick laptop perched on a stack of folders, ready to fall onto the nameplate for Sheriff McKinley. “Are you here on behalf of your network?”

“I do not believe so,” Spock said, “though I have a role of some responsibility there.”

The sheriff rolled his eyes. His green vinyl rolling chair groaned as he took his seat. Spock gingerly sat on the edge of a plain wooden chair. “Look,” McKinley said, hands crossing over a stack of paper, “what your crew did was dangerous and irresponsible. I spent an hour yesterday thinking I was gonna have to plan their rescue on top of everything else going on. I don’t have time for that, and I sure as hell don’t have the money for it.”

“I agree,” Spock said. Now McKinley looked interested. “The two men involved were not, I can assure you, acting under the order or approval of the network when they decided to attempt this adventure. In fact, they did not officially report their plan to anyone; I believe they may have tried to obscure what they were doing from others in the area. We only received confirmation of what they were doing after they had already left.”

McKinley sighed. “I met that squirrelly one, Scotty, yesterday, so none of that’s exactly a surprise. What I want to know is what you’re going to do about it.”

Spock raised an eyebrow. “What do you mean?”

“You have footage from that drive,” he said, with a certainty that implied Mr. Scott had already admitted this. “I’m wondering if I’m gonna see it on your network, and if then, I’m gonna spend next summer trying to talk crazy kids in souped-up mudding rigs from driving through lethal forest fires.”

“As far as I know, the network has no plans to release that footage,” Spock said, and then decided honesty was the best policy. “In fact, to the best of my knowledge, the network at large does not know that the footage exists.”

“Any chance it’s going to stay that way?”

“Probably not,” Spock conceded. “However, I understand your point, and I believe it is accurate. I will argue to the fullest extent that our coverage should not glorify this event in any way. Further, I share your concern about the behavior of my colleagues.”

The sheriff tilted his head. “Really.”

“Truly,” Spock said, and he let the smallest bit of his anger seep into his tone. This was honest, at least, and it was the first time he’d let it really surface: he was worried about Jim, but he was also bitterly, viciously angry at him. Neither of them needed to be in these positions at the moment. Spock did not want to spend his day negotiating between angry townspeople, fretting network executives, and an injured lover. “I would like to give you the name and number of the lawyer who handles ethical questions for the network. He may be a better resource than I can be for some of your questions.”

The sheriff pulled a surprisingly new model of iPhone from his desk drawer. “Lay it on me,” he said.

The exchange of information — because Spock provided his own number, like collateral, as though to show he was truly giving the sheriff helpful information — seemed to engender a new trust. Sheriff McKinley leaned back in his chair with a great creak and sigh. “Well, there’s also the matter of the van.”

“The van?”

It turned out that the Enterprise had been impounded. Sheriff McKinley was only too happy to escort Spock to the lot, which was part junkyard, part parking lot, on the edge of town. The Enterprise towered over the collection of rusty abandoned vehicles near it. Only a shattered windshield and a faint smattering of dust marked it as out of order. As they approached, the sheriff rubbed a hand over his close-cropped hair. “I’ll admit, I’ve been dreaming of auctioning it off, but I can’t quite find the legal way to do it. Mind you, they not only used it to break the law but also drove away from the scene in it, so I’m at least within my rights to keep it a good long while.”

“Indeed.” Spock approached the van cautiously, not certain that he wanted to see it. A faint smell of seared rubber lingered around it, something he could smell even over the smoke in the air. “What do you need from it?” he asked, staring blankly at the windshield. A hole the size of a volleyball had been punched into the glass. He had to fight not to visualize Jim in the driver’s seat, his body so close to where the branch had come through.

“Need? Nothing, really,” the sheriff said. “Off the record, though, your guys pretty much pissed us all off when they refused to consider loaning it for the rescue effort. It’s gonna hurt a little when we have to give it back.”

Spock closed his eyes, just for a moment, and replayed what the sheriff had said. “You asked to use the Enterprise — this vehicle?”

“Yup. Got a whole lot of nonsense about the special features and liabilities and other horseshit from your man that was driving.”

Spock opened his eyes and swallowed. “You mean Mr. Scott.”

“No, the other one. Kirk. Said he couldn’t loan it out on account of network rules or something, then drove it up the damn mountain himself.” Sheriff McKinley shook his head. “Still not very happy about that one, I gotta tell you.”

“Noted,” Spock said. Not very happy seemed a particularly mild descriptor; Spock found himself flooded with sudden, incandescent anger. “Shall we arrange for a pickup in the somewhat distant future, then?”

He left the lot twenty minutes later, with arrangements already made to excise the Enterprise once the fire had died down and would allow for better access to reliable towing services. It would be taken into Missoula and there, Spock fantasized, disassembled and turned into a hundred helpful toasters or spare copier parts or tiny metal tulips sold in gift shops. He allowed himself the luxury of personifying the Enterprise for a while, channeling his anger toward it, until he was within sight of the car.

As he approached, his phone chimed. A message from T’Pring was waiting. Spock sighed just reading it, then responded with a quick, _Of course_ , and walked over to where a very nervous Mr. Scott was waiting at the car. Scott pulled at the neck of his shirt. “Not, uh, not going to have to surrender myself or anything, am I?”

“No,” he said, and then added nothing else. He felt no need to be particularly kind to Scott at the moment, but he didn’t want to break the news about the Enterprise’s long-term stay, either. “Please take me to the location where T’Pring is filming. It appears news of your grand adventure has begun to leak to the rest of the press.”

* * *

The next two days were some of the most delicately balanced of Spock’s life. He spent hours on camera, back and forth with T’Pring, reporting from the scene of the still-raging fires. He did his best to interview local officials in a way calculated to give the most accurate news (without appearing to make hay from Jim’s heroic rescue). They showed an edited version of the tape from the Enterprise’s rescue repeatedly, often more than once an hour, after which Spock would offer commentary “live from the scene” as needed. Again and again, he watched Jim carrying a hiker to the van, heard Scott’s warning yell, watched the screen go black, and then had to appear live to ask a local or an official for their take.

Off-camera, he often spoke again with the same officials for broader pictures of the situation and to continue his work of smoothing over ruffled local law enforcement feathers. Between those commitments, he stopped in at Jim’s room as much as possible, though not often enough if McCoy’s complaints were to be believed, and he fielded calls from New York about their status. Juggling the demands from Karen Komack and the local sheriff alone would have been enough; putting the worry and concern he felt for Jim into the mix made things much worse.

There was plenty to be concerned about. Jim’s recovery was going well, actually; he was up and around, and though in pain, it was managed now by over-the-counter medications instead of the disorienting drugs of the first night. However, he moved stiffly, coughed frequently, and tired easily, and he was frustrated by McCoy’s prescribed isolation.

“I hate this,” Jim said the next afternoon, when Spock had stopped in for a quick room-service lunch and to change clothes. Jim was stretched out over the small couch, legs kicked over one arm. He wore a green tank top that McCoy had found for him, which allowed the more serious burn to breathe. A river of shiny pink, blistered skin wove down his arm, through the rest of his tan flesh. Spock hated the shirt; Jim’s burn still made him feel sick to his stomach over what could have happened, how much worse things could have gone. “There’s gotta be something I could be doing.”

“There is not,” Spock said. He focused on his salad, trying to scoop up the few bits of walnuts that had been sprinkled on top. The hotel had few vegetarian dishes available, and Spock could not eat another grilled cheese sandwich.

“They have you on air constantly, and you’re editing scripts between takes,” Jim said. “Don’t tell me we’re not short on manpower.”

Spock looked up from his salad, trying to decide how to answer this. “Of course, we are short of effective assistance right now,” he said. “If you really want to help, you could convince McCoy to return to the air.”

“As if,” Jim said. “You think I haven’t been trying to kick him out, too? No one listens to me.”

“Mm.” Spock held his tongue about the rest of the reasons that Jim couldn’t help. The network was furious with him. Karen Komack had wanted to fire Jim flat out after Sheriff McKinley had talked to Harrison; Spock had managed to convince her that it would be a PR disaster, so now she was looking into just how long FWN could suspend Jim for willfully disobeying the request of a law enforcement offer. Admiral Komack was disappointed that Jim hadn’t managed to get on air and publicize the entire affair to their benefit yet, though the on-air appearance of one of the hikers the day before had somewhat placated him. Spock had been editing scripts between takes, exactly as Jim said, but he had also been fielding calls from every level of network administration, trying to do what was best for everyone involved.

“Scotty gets to be on TV.”

“Is that what you want?” Spock asked, pushing away the salad. He stood and carried it to the door, leaving plate and tray in the hallway. When he returned, Jim was sitting up, frowning. “Are you missing the airtime so much?”

Jim rolled his eyes and rubbed one hand over his face. “You know that’s not what I meant.”

“I’m not certain I know what you meant at all,” Spock said. He kept his voice even, walking over to peer at the contents of his suitcase as he spoke. “Two days ago, you risked your life and that of Mr. Scott, not to mention thousands of dollars of equipment, to engage in an illegal rescue mission that nearly ended in serious injury for everyone involved. You are barely yet recovered enough to sit there without wincing, and you’re complaining that you haven’t been on television enough?”

There was a pause, which gave Spock time to realize he had nothing cleaner than what he was currently wearing. When Jim spoke, his voice sounded both tired and annoyed. “Are you still pissed about this?” he asked.

Spock looked over. Jim was watching him, a long, steady gaze. “That you careened headlong into a dangerous fire? I find I have managed to maintain some negative feelings about that, yes.”

“You know why I did it.”

“I do,” Spock said.

“We saved their lives.”

“You did,” he agreed. “Just because I am glad of the outcome does not reduce my concern.” He walked into the bedroom. He had no remaining clothing in the closet, and he could not remember if he had sent his shirts to the laundry the day before. Jim, of course, had no clean dress clothing either, though Spock did find a windbreaker with the network logo of which he could make use. As he pulled it on, he let himself briefly close his eyes. He was tired in a way that he rarely felt: physically, mentally, emotionally. It felt as though Jim was right, that he should have been able to get past his anger and fear from Jim’s trip into the fire, but he felt stuck there, in the moment when Jim had said he was choosing not to evacuate. Wild moments of panic still washed over him, even now, as though the video feed had never turned back on, as though Jim was somehow still missing, possibly gone forever.

His phone rang in the other room, and Spock turned his attention back to the present. When he walked into the living area, Jim was absent, in the shower from the sound of it. Spock saw Karen Komack’s number on the phone, sighed, and took the call into the hallway.

“I think we’ve got a solution to a couple of problems, here,” she said. “When can you be back in New York?”

Spock glanced at his watch. “Tomorrow morning, at earliest,” he said.

“Good. Get a flight. Round up Kirk and McCoy, too, and Scott if you can.”

“Do you want a team to remain here?”

“That’s your call,” she said. “If there’s still news, fine. Just send my assistant the names of who’ll be traveling.”

“I understand,” Spock said, and then said goodbye. Then he paused in the hallway, wondering what this meant, exactly. He couldn’t deny that returning to the city would be a relief; he hated even the smell of the smoke outside, the way it had seeped in through even the air conditioning. Still, he wasn’t certain they were done with their stories, either. The town around them was still in danger, though a predicted cold front that weekend would probably bring rain to reduce the danger. Strangely, Spock wished that there were someone else to decide this for him, some individual that currently outranked him with whom he could consult, but no one on the ground in Montana had that power. Instead, he sent a text to T’Pring, Sulu, Chekov, and Chapel, asking them to meet him in the first-floor conference room in 30 minutes, then returned to Jim’s suite.

McCoy had come in through the adjoining door and was now seated at the table Spock had just abandoned, eating a cheeseburger. Jim was still in the bathroom. “You look like hell,” McCoy said.

“Thank you, doctor.” Spock took a moment to assess his own reflection and decided McCoy was right. “We have been asked to return to New York as soon as can be arranged.”

“Oh yeah?” McCoy took a bite of his burger and chewed, too loudly. “When’s that?”

“Tonight, if possible,” Spock said. He pulled his network ID badge over his head and made sure his room key was in his pocket. “Please tell Jim when he comes out.”

“You’re not waiting around?”

Spock shook his head. He needed to meet with the others, and he wasn’t sure Jim would welcome his presence. “I will send flight details when I have them.”

At the meeting, they agreed that they could rely on local reports to follow the fire and decided to bring the entire team home. That required finding ten seats on an outgoing flight that evening, which was more difficult than Spock had anticipated. In the end, Spock, T’Pring, Jim, and McCoy wound up on one small flight to Minneapolis while the others were booked through Denver. There were two seats together in one row, and two separate seats further back. After an awkward shuffle, Jim and McCoy took the seats together, and Spock sat three rows back.

T’Pring negotiated with another passenger for the window seat beside him. “If this is your attempt at hiding your relationship,” she said, voice low, “it would help if you were not staring at the back of his head constantly.”

Spock sighed. “I assure you I am making no such effort.”

“You are having a disagreement?”

He shrugged, turning a page in a book he wasn’t reading. “I’m not entirely sure.”

“Promising,” she said. “Do you know why you have been called back?”

“No.”

“You anticipate trouble.”

He nodded. “Karen sounded too happy on the phone for it to be an entirely painless homecoming.”

“You no longer believe your interests and hers to be aligned?”

“I am uncertain,” he said.

“That does seem to be a theme for you, right now,” she murmured, and softened these words with a hand resting gently on his forearm. “I shall hope for the best outcome for all.”

“Thank you.”

They had to run between flights at the next airport, thanks to a delay in landing, and they piled on to the next plane in a line with T’Pring leading, Jim and McCoy behind, and Spock at the rear. He had not had even a moment to speak to Jim during their rushed lay over, and he waited with little hope to see if Jim would choose a seat near him or McCoy. As they approached one of their two assigned rows, Jim slid in to the window seat. McCoy took one long look at Spock over his shoulder, then murmured something to Jim before he followed T’Pring up the aisle.

Spock secured his bag, then sat next to Jim. Jim was staring out the window, though only the lights of the few last ground crews and remaining overnight flights remained. For a moment, Spock wondered if he would try to remain silent for the full flight. Then Jim turned, and he looked exhausted, his face drawn. As Jim raised one hand to better secure his ballcap, Spock understood that he was in significant pain, and he felt an almost physical illness at the thought. He reached over and took his hand, let Jim clench his fingers around Spock’s.

“It’ll be nice to be home,” Jim said, quietly, almost like an apology.

“Yes,” Spock agreed. “It will.”

They arrived on time. Jim was so tired he stumbled twice in the airport lobby, and Spock ended up guiding him to a waiting car with a gentle hand on his back, dragging his luggage with the other hand. The very moment they reached the apartment, they both collapsed into bed, barely taking the time to shuck their clothing and, for Jim, to swallow additional medication, before falling asleep.

The next morning, Karen called Spock in to go over what had happened on the ground, in detail, for what had to be the fifth time. This time, Admiral Komack was in attendance, along with two network lawyers (including John Harrison). He gave the same report he had given over the phone, as plainly as he could. Afterwards, Karen thanked him and told him to take another day off to rest up. Spock followed that command by going directly back home and falling into bed with Jim, who, as far as he could tell, hadn’t moved the entire time Spock was gone.

They didn’t really talk about what had happened in Montana. Spock had decided it was best to wait until he had something straightforward to say, some clear statement of what he had felt and why he was so angry, before he spoke. In addition, he could see no benefit in maintaining his anger at Jim while he was still in pain and recovering. Within a day of arriving back in New York, he could see little benefit in a discussion at all.

The network had given Jim five days off at the recommendation of his doctor, but he spent one of those days taping an interview with Alyssa Duane, an anchor for FBN’s Sunday newsmagazine _The Hour_ , about the rescue. Spock didn’t ask about the content of the interview, and Jim volunteered little of what had happened. They both seemed comfortable with the silence.

During Jim’s break, he spent his time at Spock’s apartment, and his team was in and out during this time. Spock, to his own surprise, rather enjoyed this. Hearing that Jim had invited his friends over made it feel more like a home they shared, a space that Jim claimed some ownership of, rather than just an apartment where he slept surrounded by Spock’s things. He didn’t mind coming home late and finding Sulu refilling the Brita pitcher in the kitchen, or passing Scott and McCoy in the lobby as he was leaving for work. He appreciated their efforts to keep Jim company, and even found himself commiserating with McCoy on the difficulties of keeping Jim from overdoing things.

By the time Jim was cleared for work again, Spock was hoping Montana was mostly behind them. The network had received its share of press over the rescue story, but Spock had watched Jim’s appearance on _The Hour_ and found it surprisingly self-deprecating. He had credited the local law enforcement officials with more than their fair share of the rescue and spent the most time commenting on the strength that the hikers themselves had displayed. It hadn’t deflected the attention from him, but it had been an effective push in some other directions. It had also, as far as Spock could tell, healed the hurt feelings in the local sheriff’s department. The Enterprise would likely be up and running again soon. With it, he thought, things would perhaps return to normal.

* * *

A week and a half after their return, Spock woke early and already found a message waiting. Karen wanted him at the FWN offices by 9, which left little time for breakfast. When he got out of the shower, Jim was waiting to get in. “Looks like I’ve got meetings, too,” he said, holding up his newly replaced phone. Though his eyes still had faint purple smudges beneath them, he no longer seemed as desperately tired as he had when they had returned from Montana. His arm and chest still had alarming, now-scabbed pink lines, but he said they didn’t hurt any more. Small mercies, Spock thought.

“Would you like to ride in together?”

“Yeah.” He paused in the doorway of the bathroom as they passed each other, and Jim slid his hand to Spock’s waist. “Hey,” he said, and then leaned up and kissed Spock softly on the mouth. “Good morning.”

Spock smiled and kissed Jim’s temple. “Good morning.”

In the car, they barely spoke, both reading from their phones as the city sped by, but Jim’s hand rested on Spock’s knee for part of the ride. Something was beginning to loosen in Spock’s chest, relieved by seeing Jim back at home, by feeling his touch and affection again. He thought Montana finally felt behind them.

He was wrong.

Karen welcomed him into her office with a grand flourish, smiling broadly. “Thanks for coming in on your day off.” She wore a sharp, slim black suit, a style echoed when John Harrison stood upon Spock’s entering the room. “I know you know each other,” she said, waving Spock into the chair next to Harrison. “John’s been an enormous help in figuring out the legal ramifications on this all.”

“I do aim to be of use,” Harrison said.

Spock sat slowly in his seat, feeling strangely under-dressed in just shirt, tie, and slacks. He was not scheduled to appear on air at all that day, and he felt unsettled already by the atmosphere. It was as though he was being welcomed into a clique or, he thought uncharitably, a conspiracy.

“Well, let’s get the good news out of the way first, shall we?” Karen asked. “My father has finally seen reason, and we’re moving ahead with some consolidation in prime time. Let me tell you, it was not without considerable argument, but it’s done, and I’m so glad.”

“Congratulations,” Spock said.

“I believe it’s you to whom those are owed,” Harrison said, steepling his fingers.

“Oh?”

“I need a managing editor who can oversee all of this, and after your performance out there, all of the wrangling you did, you can’t think I’d want somebody else,” she said. “You’ll get to keep your shows and staff, though we probably need to shift a few folks around. T’Pring is due for a promotion, I think, if you don’t mind her getting her own chair?”

“Not at all,” Spock said, blinking. “But — if I’m to maintain my shows, then —“

“Kirk,” she said, grin spreading. “He’s been on the edge anyway, and with this last stunt, well, even my father is movable. Oh, it’s not a total victory, he’s not fired. But with his stupid truck out of commission, and with the conversations John’s been having with that local sheriff, we finally have what we need to keep him in check.”

“In check,” Spock echoed. “By which you mean —“

“He’ll get the morning,” she said. “We’ve been needing an update to the a.m. show, and Dad’s so convinced that Kirk’s ratings will follow him that he was finally amenable to a move.”

Spock nodded, feeling a strange sense of detachment from the proceedings. “The morning. Every morning?”

“That’s the plan. He’s gonna co-anchor the six to eight block.” She buzzed on with details, congratulating herself on such a tidy wrap-up to “all of this intrigue. I’ll hand it to you, you’re right, the way this played out, we couldn’t have fired him without looking like monsters. Now, though, he gets a promotion, ostensibly, and you can get to work on saving the evenings.” Her grin was wide and expectant. Spock briefly wondered if he was supposed to applaud.

Harrison jumped in, and the actual clap of his hands in one sharp motion snapped Spock nearly out of his chair. “Yes. Well. Good news all around, isn’t it?”

“Ah,” Spock managed, before Harrison said, talking without stop, “And I know, Karen, it was kind of you to take even this time, when I’d already kept you from your directors’ meeting. I can see Spock down and talk through the rather boring HR details, if you’d like.”

“Oh, thank you,” she said, shaking her head. “Spock, we’ll talk again soon. I’ll drop in on the rundown tomorrow, all right?”

“Of course,” he said, rising. “Just — one question. Has this already been announced?”

Her smile, now, was smug. “It’ll be out in general this afternoon. Dad’s talking with Kirk right now, and we all know he can’t keep a secret.”

Spock left the office still feeling stunned. Harrison was only a step behind him, voicing the gracious parting of which Spock felt himself felt incapable. When they entered the elevator, Harrison gave him a once-over that let Spock know he wasn’t hiding his true feelings well at all. “I would think,” he said, as the doors slid closed, “you would be grateful.”

The air felt thin in the elevator, as though they were ascending instead of going down. He looked studiously ahead, though he couldn’t avoid Harrison’s reflection in the mirrored glass. “I have never campaigned for nor particularly desired a promotion,” Spock said.

Harrison’s smile was a thin, pale line. “No, not about that,” he said. The elevator dinged softly as they approached the floor where Harrison worked. He paused as he stepped out, one elegant hand on the doors. “If you’re both promoted at the same time, there’s no need to file any conflict of interest documentation, is there?”

The door closed, but not before Harrison waved him off with a wag of his fingers. Spock’s stomach sank the closer he came to his own floor. He had no doubt that Jim would take his transfer news very poorly, and he was uncertain whether he should seek him out directly or wait to talk with him at home. Perhaps home would be best, he thought, as the doors slid open. They would have space and time, away from too many prying ears and eyes, to talk this over rationally and consider the ramifications. After all, Harrison was right in one respect: there were some advantages to playing along, though Spock was under no illusion that Jim would see that logic.

He went to his desk on autopilot, and it only then occurred to him that he would owe his team an explanation before they heard the news through gossip. None of them would be in yet, of course, but they might already be checking their messages. He sent a quick group message requesting a lunch meeting and had everyone’s positive responses by the time he returned to his desk with coffee. They would likely have already read something into his request to meet off site, but that couldn’t be helped. He hired perceptive people for a reason.

Spock sent a quick text to Jim, letting him know he was at his desk should he require anything, and then turned to his work more fully. It was easier than it should have been to put the morning’s meeting out of his mind, in part because the news wouldn’t really sink in until he’d had a chance to share it, he thought. Until he knew Jim’s reaction, and until he had gauged his own team’s response, this would feel like another of Karen’s schemes to consolidate power: theoretically life-changing, but realistically, business-as-usual.

Jim did not reply, and Spock wondered if he had perhaps forgotten to adequately charge his phone. When he took a break from his forecast models, he noticed that the lights in Jim’s conference room were off, and he thought perhaps Jim had gone to consult with his own team immediately after his meeting. It was also possible that Admiral Komack had decided to hold their meeting somewhere outside; he had, for a while, been particularly enamored of an all-day brunch restaurant at the top of some nearby banking building, and had insisted on holding more meetings there than could ever be logically defended.

By the time it was time for Spock to leave for his own lunch, though, he could no longer ignore Jim’s silence completely. He also couldn’t decide whether to worry about it: After all, Jim’s news had been more shocking than Spock’s own, and he likely needed time to process in his own way. They would still have time to speak in the evening.

His team took the news just as Spock had: skeptically. “So what, exactly, is going to change?”

“Very little at first,” Spock said. “I will have some additional authority over what stories are covered in all of the evening shows and in the series that air, and you will likely all be asked to take on additional duties, should you want them, for additional pay.”

“Promotions for all. I like that part particularly well,” Stonn said, sipping his fizzing water.

“Other series,” T’Pring said, her eyes narrowing. “You’ll be overseeing the content for Kirk’s shows?”

“No,” Spock said. “Jim will also see a change in roles.” He looked down at his own plate as he spoke. “He will now be part of the morning show.”

“The morning show… that’s on in the mornings?” Nyota said. “Every morning? Doesn’t Jim hate the morning?”

Spock nodded. “I have not spoken to him yet, but Karen reported that he was hearing the news from Admiral Komack this morning.”

“Wow,” Nyota said, drawing the word out. She sat back in her chair. “So they’re trying to get him to quit?”

“They have tried before,” Spock said.

“I thought Admiral Komack loved Kirk,” Stonn said.

“Karen was able to convince him of the change because of Jim’s potential draw to their viewers,” Spock said. “Also, there are certain legal issues surrounding the rescue that she presented to her father, and these may have made him decide keeping Jim closer to the studio would be for the better.” As they talked about it, Spock felt another trickle of nervousness over Jim’s reaction. Was it possible that Jim would resign? He might at least threaten it, Spock thought, and he was uncertain how the Admiral would handle that. “For now, it is likely better if we refrain from sharing any news but that which directly concerns our team,” he said.

All three team members were staring at him. “If Jim quits,” Nyota said, crossing one hand delicately over the other in front of her, “would you go with him?”

Spock sat back. “You assume he would go to another network?”

She shrugged. “I think he’s probably had offers. From networks and maybe climate science labs.”

“He would not fit in at NWS,” Stonn said, shaking his head.

“Nor do I believe that local weather would hold any attraction for him,” T’Pring said.

“Which leaves either a transfer to FBN or over to one of the other big networks,” Nyota finished.

T’Pring nodded, taking a sip of her water. “FBN would be a logical choice. If they want him in Atlanta, would you go?”

Spock looked past his team, through the plate-glass window that looked onto a bustling, narrow street. The Federation Broadcast Network had its headquarters in Atlanta, though they had several Manhattan-based shows in the same tower FWN used. Were Jim to make a leap to their broadcasts, though, he would likely be based out of Atlanta, where the news division under Chris Pike now had its home — and seeing as though he had hardly anything to move, it wouldn’t likely be an issue for him to relocate. Spock, though, had never seriously considered it. He liked his routine, liked his job, liked his access to equipment at FWN. It came back to the dangerous question he’d been pondering for several months, now: Did he like Jim more than all of that?

“I do not know," Spock said. He raised a hand to signal for the bill, then said, “And without knowing any of the details of Jim’s discussion or its aftermath, I think your question is very much premature.”

“We’ll see.”

Spock decided not to return to FWN after lunch. He had the day off, after all, something that had been planned back when they were going to be in Baltimore for the next few days. Though they had decided to postpone that trip, he had no interest in being around that afternoon as word of the staffing changes inevitably spread. There would be time enough for falsely congratulatory conversations and political maneuvering later. So he saw his team off after lunch, then caught a car home — where no one was waiting for him.

“Curious,” he said, glancing around. Everything was in the same place. Apparently, Jim hadn’t been back yet, either. He glanced at his phone and saw no missed calls or messages. It took him five minutes to put away his things, another three to change into his workout clothes. Before he left for the gym, he sent two messages: one to Jim, checking in and asking when he might be home, and another to McCoy, to find out if he knew of Jim’s whereabouts. Then he left his phone on the counter and went up to the fitness deck, telling himself it was logical to workout without the distraction of his phone.

When he returned forty minutes later, Jim was sitting at the kitchen counter.

“Hello,” Spock said.

Jim nodded but said nothing. He still wore the ready-for-air clothes that he’d put on that morning: a pale ivory button-down shirt and gray slacks. Though his collar was loose and his hair mussed, he had Spock at a disadvantage, for once, in formality of clothing. Spock’s own hair was likely matted with sweat, and his T-shirt clung to his chest. He crossed to the kitchen to get a glass of water and saw that was what Jim was drinking, as well. A faintly sweet smell, alcohol of some variety, wafted through. “You’ve been with McCoy?”

“The whole team, actually,” Jim said. “At Sulu’s place.”

“Ah.” Spock turned his back long enough to get a glass and fill it from the refrigerator. The air around him felt weighted with tension, and he wondered at the best way to relieve it. Straightforward questioning had always been his strength, but he was having trouble coming up with the right words to acknowledge what had happened.

“Congratulations, by the way,” Jim said. Spock turned around, the water glass in his hand. Jim looked up at him, and his mouth was slanted at the edge. “I hear you’re taking over the whole evening.”

Spock took a sip of his water and tried to decide how best to respond. “I believe you know I did not seek this promotion.”

Jim nodded, his eyes turning back to the countertop. “Yeah. I mean, that’s what I kept telling myself. You’ve heard my new deal?”

“I am aware of the general outline.”

“Oh, well, it’s in the specifics that it gets its real charm.” Jim crossed his arms. “With the Enterprise out of commission, they’re shelving that show indefinitely. Scotty’s off contract forever, anyway, so I don’t know if we could restart it. MedBay can continue, but only if you say so,” and here he raised an eyebrow and looked up at Spock, but too briefly for Spock to even respond, “and they’re considering making To Boldly Go a weekend feature, but if so, it’s pretty likely they want to go in a different direction there, too.”

“A different direction?”

“Fewer location shoots, or we’d send junior members out to do those.” Jim ran a hand through his hair. “Because I’ll be too busy with the morning show, you know.”

“Jim —“

“Did you know, they do travel for the morning segments, but they do live crowd segments wherever they go? So if it’s, say, hurricane season, maybe I’d go to Miami on a sunny day and talk about how to prepare for a storm while a crowd holds up ‘Mom I love you’ signs in the background.” He scrubbed his hands over his face. “Lots of airtime, though, so that’s what I wanted, right?”

“I did not say that,” Spock said, quietly.

“Did you know?” Jim asked, looking up.

“About what?”

“Any of this. That they would take away my shows, or the reassignment?”

Spock shrugged. “I knew that the network was unhappy, which I relayed to you.”

“Do you know, Komack actually read me parts of your report?” he said. “He told me I could thank you for saving my job with that sheriff.”

“That seems a bit exaggerated,” Spock said, but Jim wasn’t done.

“You know what a dick I felt like, sitting there, listening to Komack tell me you were the one who’d turned me in? I mean, Spock — you gave a report? You — you hand-delivered to Karen exactly what she’s always wanted.”

“What would you have me do otherwise?” His voice was steady, though he felt as though he had begun to tremble inside. “Ignore the fundamental disregard for laws or safety —“

“You know that I had things covered. We saved their lives, and —“

“I knew no such thing,” Spock said. “And their lives were not your responsibility. Your responsibility was to your crew, your viewers, and our network.” _And me,_ Spock thought, but he couldn’t say it, not when his voice was already in danger of shaking.

“Our network, right.” Jim shook his head and stood up. “Your network, maybe.” He slung his backpack on and then, as Spock watched with growing alarm, lifted a duffle bag from the floor. This was not Jim’s typical weekend travel bag: this was bigger, fuller, something that implied a longer absence.

Spock put a hand to the counter to steady himself. “Are you going somewhere?”

“I’ve been trying to figure that out,” Jim said. “It’s just — you gave a report, and I lost my job. My team lost their jobs.” He shook his head, looking toward Spock but past him. “We always had the understanding, that the work — that we would put it first, I know, but I thought — I guess I thought we were past that.” He shrugged, then rubbed two fingers against his temple briefly. “I thought I — but it doesn’t matter.”

“I understand you are upset,” Spock began, and Jim shook his head.

“I — yeah, I’m upset,” he said, “but I don’t think you do understand.” He lifted the bag. “I need to think about this.”

“And you cannot think here?”

Jim shook his head. “I need to do a lot of thinking. And some of it, it’s about you and me, and I can’t do that here.”

“I see.” Suddenly, it hurt to push words through his throat. Spock focused on the counter, the dark granite below his pale fingers.

He heard Jim take a breath, as though he were going to speak, but only silence followed. They stood in perfect stillness for a moment, Spock waiting for Jim to change his mind, Jim perhaps waiting for… Spock wasn’t sure what, but he thought if he could identify the thing to say or do at this moment, he would have gladly done it. Instead, he looked up just enough to see Jim’s hand tighten on his backpack strap, and then he heard Jim say, softly, “Christ, I’m gonna miss you,” before he walked out.


	20. Chapter 20

Some time after Jim left, when it finally sunk in for Spock that he wasn’t immediately returning, he began to review everything he had said. Among the other crimes Spock was charged with was one that he certainly hadn’t meant to be party to: the dismissal of Jim’s staff and crew. In fact, he should have considered this upon hearing the news from Karen. Everyone who had worked on _Enterprise Weather_ and _To Boldly Go_ would be worried about their jobs right now, which could not stand. He grabbed his phone and called Karen Komack directly.

“I guess that’s not set in stone,” she said, once he’d asked what might happen to them all. “Do you want to talk it over? I could meet for a drink if it was soon.”

“I would,” Spock said. “Please let me know where to meet you.”

En route, Spock texted his team to let them know where he was headed. If he received even provisional approval from Karen to maintain staffing, he wanted to send a memo as soon as possible to everyone possibly affected. Logically, from both an internal morale standpoint and possibly a legal one, it would be much harder for Karen to walk back the good news once it was announced. Nyota agreed to be on call to send a staff bulletin when she heard from him.

Forty-five minutes later, he pulled up in front of a trendy bistro that he had avoided for months and hurried inside. The lighting was so dim as to be dark, and Spock trailed a host dressed all in black except for glow-in-the-dark shoes to a small table in the back corner of the restaurant, where Karen Komack and John Harrison were chatting. The white, smooth-topped tables were round at one end, and soft gray armchairs had been pulled up to three sides, giving the lounge a casual feel. However, before leaving his apartment, Spock had pulled on a suit jacket and better shoes, and he was glad, as everyone in the room seemed to be wearing tailored apparel. He took a seat across from Karen, with Harrison on the round end between them.

“Oh, Spock, good timing,” Karen said. “Are you feeling daring? I’m letting John decide what sounds best for a few appetizers to share.”

“Certainly,” Spock said, then added, “though I do not eat meat.”

“Pity," Harrison said. He ordered four dishes from the menu that seemed to be random collections of words and flavors, like air-fried ancient grain cakes or mint mango barley crush plate, and asked for a second round of drinks for them both. Spock ordered a glass of pinot noir. Karen’s wide grin and empty glass signaled that they had been waiting for some time. Spock listened to the tail end of a story about a recent Board of Directors meeting while they waited for their drinks to arrive. His fingers twitched against his phone, and he thought of Jim, then tried not to think of him.

Once the new drinks arrived. Karen turned her attention to him fully. “So, the crew,” she said, her fingers running gently up and down the stem of her martini glass. “It’s a good question. I have to admit, I’m of a mind to start fresh wherever we can.”

“I understand, but I disagree,” Spock said, though he kept his tone as gentle as possible, “only because I think they represent talent that we have built and should fight to maintain. Letting go the staff, crew, and secondary talent on those shows would be a boon to our competitors.”

Karen hummed. “We could reassign them within the Federation networks, maybe. Dad doesn’t get along with anyone at FBN, but I have a few contacts.”

Spock somehow doubted that most of the people working on Jim’s New York-based shows would be delighted to get a transfer out to Atlanta. “I believe that might be a good offer for some, but I am loathe to allow any of the other networks to begin collecting their own stable of expertise in our area.”

Harrison, who had been blessedly silent while sipping his drink, now coughed. “Really, you can’t think anyone else wants to create their own mini weather network, can you? Surely we’ve proven ourselves to be masters of this domain.”

“I’d put nothing past Chris Pike,” Karen said, rolling her eyes. “He and Dad have had this fight going on for like ten years over territory. Pike thinks weather is news and should be under his control, but Dad knows it’s more than that.”

Spock nodded, though he was not at all sure that Pike had any designs on FWN, really. “All the more reason to maintain the talent that we have so painstakingly developed.”

Karen sighed. “Fine. If they want to stay, and if you can find them a place, let’s keep them. But I want those time slots redeveloped as soon as possible.”

“Thank you,” Spock said, feeling relieved. “I’ll announce that this evening, with your approval. I know moving swiftly is a priority, and I feel the stability this promotes will be welcome news that eases the transition.”

“Of course,” Karen said, suddenly magnanimous. “I should have known you’d be eager to get started.”

“Indeed.” Spock quickly texted Nyota to send the prepared memo. Then he sat back and sipped his drink, considering his next request carefully. He’d thought of it only on the ride over, and it was less fully formed than most of his plans. “I have one other request, though it is of a more personal nature,” Spock said.

Karen raised an eyebrow. Their food arrived, then, which likely halted the personal questions that seemed to be building. Harrison began immediately filling his plate with dainty foods. Karen scooped up a few shrimp, but her eyes seemed to never leave Spock. “I’m not sure I’ve ever heard you use those words before,” she said. “I’m intrigued. Go on.”

“I had already planned to take the next three days off,” Spock said. “I would like to maintain that vacation time. There are some personal matters which I would like to deal with before turning my attention fully to the new position.”

He saw Harrison’s eyebrows climb and knew he needed to provide a reason that had nothing to do with Jim. Spock searched for something that would not technically be a lie and would also sate both Harrison’s and Karen’s appetite for gossip. “My father is getting remarried," he said, finally, which was not untrue. “I have promised him some dedicated family time before the event, and as of yet, I have been unable to carry through. I do not anticipate that the transition to new programming will allow for this either, and yet, I am loathe to break a promise made to him.”

Karen’s eyes crinkled at the edges, her face softening. “Of course,” she said. “I know you’re a nose to the grindstone worker, Spock. Good idea to get the family time out of the way. I want you at a hundred percent when we ramp up. A few days, you said?”

“That is what I’m scheduled for.”

“Sounds fine. Actually, take the week — come back Monday after next, really hit the ground running, and give your father your undivided attention. OK?”

Spock could think of no way not to accept that wouldn’t expose his lie. “Thank you,” he said, instead. “I will find coverage, of course.” None of his crew would argue about extra air time, and he would leave directions to allow Chekov more responsibility. In addition, Jim’s crew would likely be available to assist — assuming they would work for Spock, if Jim chose to officially end their relationship.

“Come back ready to work,” she said, grinning. “This will be great.”

Harrison said nothing, but Spock saw his speculative look. It was not one that he found comforting, but there was little he could do to stop it. Most likely, the news of his and Jim’s relationship difficulties would find its way to the network gossip within the next day or two: a prime reason that Spock was going to avoid the office.

And, logically, he saw no reason that his vacation couldn’t begin immediately. “I apologize for the short length of my stay, but I have several arrangements to make,” Spock said. “Thank you for the drinks.”

He was outside five minutes later, hailing a Lyft, and wondering if he had made the right decision. Then, he pictured walking into work the next day and seeing Jim’s conference room dark or, worse, in some state of already being packed up, and knew that being away would be best. If Jim wanted space, Spock would give him the entire network.

* * *

Space, however, was a bit lonely.

Thirty-six hours later, his phone rang. It was the first non-work contact he’d had since speaking briefly with his doorman on the way into the building after drinks with Karen and Harrison. He’d considered, and decided against, texting Jim at least fourteen times in the interim.

“Spock,” Sybok said when he answered the phone, “is everything OK?”

“I am fine,” Spock said, standing in the middle of his empty apartment.

“Fine has variable definitions, and no, you’re not," Sybok said. “Unless — did Jim break his phone again?”

“I have no idea what Jim has done to his phone,” Spock said, running his finger through the faintest trace of dust on the counter, leftover from the oatmeal he’d made for breakfast. Oh. He would need to text Rand.

“Oh, no,” Sybok said. “So you broke up. Oh my god. Of course you did, you’re home and it’s like the middle of the day.”

Spock rubbed his forehead. He had slept later than usual and returned to bed to read after breakfast, and his head still felt foggy. Perhaps he was coming down with something. “Why are you asking me this?”

“Oh, I installed a teensy little subroutine on your phone to signal me if you didn’t text Jim for a certain amount of time,” Sybok said, tone sounding almost bored.

“You — Sybok, you installed spywear on my phone? You were spying on me?”

“Mm, let’s call it brotherly looking out,” he said. “It’s actually a new feature on the message app, and anyway, this isn’t about me! Look, I had to find out from Dad that you were even dating someone. I wasn’t taking any chances — and good thing, too, huh, since you would have never called me on your own.”

Spock agreed with this privately, but didn’t want to give Sybok any further encouragement. “Did you need something?”

“No, no. What do you need? Do you want me to come over? Or, no, scratch that, let’s get you out of there. Want to come out here for a bit? My jet’s in Miami, but that’s not too far.”

“No, I don’t —“ Spock stopped. The truth was, he did not want to be in his apartment any longer. Karen had emailed strict instructions for him to stay away from his work e-mail while on vacation. He’d heard nothing from Jim. Nothing was keeping him here.

“Look, I’m right on the water,” Sybok said. “Plenty of excellent weather patterns to analyze while you sit on the deck with nearly perfect coffee and brood.”

It sounded better than another day in this too-empty space. “I do not brood,” Spock said, “but I do accept.”

By evening, he was in Seattle, or really, just outside of it, enjoying his brother’s strange brand of hospitality. His home was situated on a small island, accessible by ferry and, he mentioned casually, by helicopter, and it did overlook the sound. Everything about the home — which managed to be both grand and cozy, a modern-built lodge-style three-story structure nestled half into woods — surprised Spock. He had grown up in the ambassadorial mansions of Sarek’s postings, and then later in the colonial-style brick mansion that his father had bought upon returning permanently to the States. Their home had been filled with the beiges, reds, and deep greens and blues of late-century American homey decor. Spock himself preferred clean lines and modern furnishings, black and gray and white, in reaction to the manufactured homespun styles of his youth. Sybok, it seemed, had gone the opposite direction, whole heartedly embracing the rustic aesthetic that Sarek and Amanda had smoothed over. His stairs were hard, scrubbed wood; his library stretched to the ceiling with collections of musty books; his sofas had carved wooden feet and matching footstools. Spock was led to a guest room on the second floor with its own bathroom (featuring a claw-footed tub), a queen-sized bed covered in a hand-stitched white-and-green quilt, and a corner window looking onto trees and choppy water. The house had no television, he learned, but did have lightning-fast Internet and bluetooth-ready speakers in every room.

The first evening, it was just the two of them. They sat at a round wooden table next to the kitchen and ate lasagna, and Sybok talked with little prompting about the house and its decor. “Margee did most of it,” he said.

“Your… girlfriend?”

He nodded and offered Spock a refill on his hot tea from a heavy black pot. Spock declined. “You’ll probably meet her tomorrow. She likes to paint in the attic if there’s any sun at all. Don’t let her surprise you.”

Spock watched his brother pour himself tea that smelled faintly of peppermint and also like wet tree bark, then sip happily. “I sincerely doubt there is any part of meeting your significant other that I won’t find fascinating.”

Sybok smiled. “Well. Feeling’s mutual, there.” His smile disappeared as though a switch had been flipped. “Is there really no hope for you and Jim? He’s crazy about you.”

Spock had told Sybok the story, as he understood it, on their drive in from the airport. Since then, he’d been struggling to convince Sybok that this was more serious than a simple lover’s quarrel. “If you had seen his face," Spock said, and then shook his head. “He believes I betrayed him. From his perspective, I can’t say he’s exactly wrong.”

“I can," Sybok said. “You’re just as crazy about him. I know you have this image of yourself as too logical to be swayed by emotion, but honestly, the idea that you would put anything above your feelings for him is pretty laughable.”

Spock shrugged. He stared out over Sybok’s impressive kitchen, trying not to picture Jim’s flat, angry stare when they’d last met. “Tell me more about your work.”

“Mm, most of it is dull, or, at least, that’s what I’m told when I bring it up. Or I was told that, before I got ridiculously wealthy, and now people hide their boredom behind really bright smiles.” Sybok attempted a big, fake smile, and it looked terrifying on him, reminiscent of some childhood nightmare. “Our worlds have collided before, though. You know some of what I do.”

“Yes,” Spock said, thinking of the many crates of SBK equipment back at the network. “Thanks to you, I now have a very strange relationship with our ethics lawyer.”

Sybok laughed. “Wonderful. Actually, I met people who knew you last year on a project, so our worlds have collided before.” Spock raised an eyebrow, comfortable that Sybok would take this as a gesture to go on. “They’d read your research — actually, I think one of them was a co-author with you on something? Really weird people, like half meteorologist, half military. They were getting a satellite together.”

“Ah. Dr. Rizzo?”

“Yeah! She’s a little nuts, and I say that with utter respect.”

Spock nodded. “Last I heard, she was taking a fellowship with the European Meteorological Society.”

“Oh, big,” Sybok said, not even sarcastic. It was heartening to know that his brother had been curious enough about Spock’s own interests to understand how substantial the EMS was. “That something you think about, ever?”

“It is rare for a non-European scientist to be invited,” he said, and then frowned. “And I have a job.”

Sybok nodded, looking a little too thoughtful. “When does your new position start, officially?”

“When I return. I was emailed a version of my new contract today.”

Now he really perked up. “You know,” he said, smiling a little, “I have an entire fleet of lawyers now. Want them to take a look?”

“I hardly think you pay them to —“

“Not my company’s lawyers, no, but my personal lawyers, absolutely.” Spock could already tell this was something Sybok really wanted to do, and he saw no need to stand in his way.

“Fine. I’ll forward the document to you, but I need to return it signed to Karen shortly.” Spock stood to warm his own tea and didn’t think about how signing the paperwork meant he was really, truly accepting this promotion.

Sybok did eventually explain some of his work. It now involved appearing in his corporate office a few times a week but, otherwise, spending a vast amount of time speaking to others through his computer screen. The office he had set up in the basement boasted an enviable amount of advanced technology, including four wide monitors, five humming computers, and at least two virtual reality headsets.

It also meant that, when Spock woke up the next morning, Sybok was already at work, leaving him at loose ends. He had e-mailed his team before he’d left town to alert them to his absence. He’d also confirmed that everyone on the staff and crew for Jim’s former shows knew that their jobs were secure, and then he’d deliberately disconnected his work e-mail from auto-sync on his phone. Nyota and T’Pring had both sent text messages to his personal number, which Spock had responded to only long enough to let them know he was fine and that he had no intention of explaining his whereabouts until his return.

McCoy, too, had texted, sometime during the first night Spock had spent in Seattle: _Are you OK?_

Spock was uncertain how to answer. He doubted that McCoy — who was inarguably Jim’s closest friend — would be seeking reassurance of Spock’s emotional state, but he couldn’t guess any other reason for the outreach. He texted back, _Physically, I am well, Doctor._

 _Not what I meant, but I’ll take it,_ came the reply, and then nothing else.

Spock tried and failed to convince himself that sending Jim a text message would be appropriate. He’d said he needed space, after all. Having the entire country between them should count for something.

It didn’t stop him from quickly answering a call later that afternoon from a New York number that he didn’t recognize. It wasn’t Jim, though: It was the same reporter who had interviewed him for the _New York Times._

“Hello, Dr. Grayson,” she said. “It’s Abigail Collier from the New York Times. I’m sorry to bother you, but do you have a few minutes to talk about the changes at FWN?”

Spock surprised himself by saying yes. He was standing on one of Sybok’s two decks, staring out at the sound in the distance.

“I heard you’ve had a promotion, too. Congratulations.”

“That has not been made official,” Spock said, carefully, “but thank you. May I ask what your story will be about?”

“Just a media brief,” she said, but Spock heard a little implied _so far_ at the end. He was intrigued in spite of himself. “You’re running the evening slate, and Jim Kirk was promoted to the morning show. The network gave us a statement: Part of a network shuffle to better engage the morning crowd and concentrated on different demographics in different time slots.” She paused, took an audible intake of air as though she was about to speak, and then paused again.

“Yes? If the network has confirmed all of that, I don’t know what else I can add.”

“It seems like a strange time for it, is I guess why I wanted to talk to you,” she said, slowly.

“Does it?” Spock had no idea whether there was a usual season for shaking up a television station.

“No scandals, no one has left, ratings have stayed solid or improved a bit for the last six months. It’s not when most companies make a big change.” She paused, again, but Spock was waiting for a question. “I’ve heard they’re trying to capitalize on Dr. Kirk’s celebrity after the fire rescue in Montana, maybe.”

Spock held the phone away from his mouth and allowed himself a sigh. “Of course, that seems like a plausible explanation.”

“Moving to a morning show after years of running your own prime time series doesn’t really seem like a promotion, though.”

Spock stayed quiet, letting his silence speak as an answer. Two stories down, a cluster of small birds landed on the weedy grass.

Finally, she said, “There are rumors.”

“I’d imagine.”

“About FWN, and Dr. Kirk, and…” Spock held a breath he didn’t remember taking in. “… there are, still, rumors about Admiral Komack and his behavior with women.”

Spock flinched. Hearing Jim’s name in the same sentence with Komack’s made him instantly furious. “Ms. Collier,” he began.

“Abigail.”

“Abigail. May I speak frankly, on background, for a moment?”

She paused. “Yes, OK, on background.”

“You’ll cite me as someone familiar with parts of the deal. Please do not mention my role or title.”

“OK,” she agreed. “Someone familiar with parts of Kirk’s deal who has knowledge of discussions surrounding the shuffle.”

“Fine.” Spock drew in a long breath. “Your instinct about the timing is correct, as is your instinct about the network’s motive for making sure Dr. Kirk is in a highly visible assignment. Montana certainly raised his cachet. But the internal reasons for the move have nothing to do with any kind of misconduct of the nature that you’re talking about. At all.”

“You’re saying there’s no harassment scandal with Kirk or Komack?”

“I’m saying there’s no harassment scandal, or harassment period, from Jim Kirk,” Spock said. “The only scandal that he has been involved in is regarding his decision-making during the outing in Montana.”

“For which he was promoted.”

Spock bit back a sigh. “If you consider that move a promotion, which you clearly do not.”

“You mean they’re… what, punishing him?”

“Yes.” Out on the water, a bird skimmed close to the waves, and Spock squinted to watch it. “He took a big risk. It paid off, but it also had costs.”

“Costs like prime time?”

“Yes. And, also, the autonomy of his own show, including having a say in the production crew, locations, and script.” The bird disappeared, and Spock looked instead at the rocky shore.

“Do you agree with the network’s decision?” she asked.

Spock paused, one hand clenching sharply against the wood railing. It was the first time, he realized, that anyone had actually asked him that. Karen had assumed he was on her side; Jim had made the same assumption. “No,” Spock admitted. “Dr. Kirk’s actions, while reckless, were commendable. He should be given more authority, not less, and more serious work, not less.”

“Wow,” Abigail said. Spock could hear her typing over the line. “Who made the call to move him, then?”

“Hm,” Spock said, and closed his eyes. “I believe you’ll need to discover that for yourself. I’ll say that Dr. Kirk and I had nearly identical contracts, and only a very, very few people have the authority to reprimand either of us.”

“One of the Komacks?”

“There would seem to be some reason to wonder,” Spock said, keeping his voice as bland as possible.

“Would you be willing to speak on the record about either of them?”

“Not at this time,” Spock said, “though if you choose to go further in your reporting, I could be a background source in the future. I have little first-hand knowledge that would be of use.”

She hummed, clearly doubtful, and Spock acknowledged to himself that he would need to consider how far to go with this. It was certainly a strange instinct to tell so many truths after receiving a promotion.

After a moment, Abigail said, “You mentioned Kirk wouldn’t have his choice of crew. Were there other people demoted or fired as part of this reorganization?”

“That’s an excellent question. I’d be happy to put you in touch with someone who could better answer it.”

They hung up only a few moments later, Abigail pleased and now in possession of Montgomery Scott’s phone number. Spock figured he, at least, was someone safe to speak with since he was no longer in the network’s employ. He thought it likely McCoy and Sulu and Chapel would all give accurate depictions of the shake-up, but he feared for their careers afterward.

She had asked him for any final on-the-record thoughts, and he’d said, without thinking, “Jim Kirk is an exemplary climate professional, an intelligent and curious scientist, and a veteran news broadcaster. Any promotion would be well deserved.” He hoped the quote was included in the story, and that Jim might see it, and he was embarrassed by wanting it.

It didn’t make it any less true.

By evening, he still wasn’t completely sure what had compelled him to be so honest with Abigail Collier. He hadn’t liked her during their first interview, but her questions this time had shown some journalistic instinct. Maybe it was just starting to feel like time that someone said something? Or maybe he was feeling like he didn’t have much to lose.

The more he considered what he’d said, the more he feared for his new job, just a bit. Sybok assured him over a dinner of fresh salmon rolls that the counteroffer contract that Karen had just accepted (thanks to Sybok’s lawyers) was iron-clad: “They’ll actually have a hard time firing you without paying you for the full term of the contract," he said. “You’d have to set someone on fire and get caught on tape doing it.”

“I do try not to perform crimes on video,” Spock assured him, and Sybok shrugged.

“Everyone’s always on video,” he said, which made sleep a bit more challenging that night.

* * *

The next morning, while Spock was staring at his phone, not texting Jim, Sybok’s girlfriend, Marguerite, finally appeared. She was a short, round woman with curly gray-white hair tucked up in a loose top knot, wearing a sage green flannel dress, with pockets, and sturdy hiking boots. Spock could admit she was not at all who he had pictured for Sybok, but then again — he had never really pictured anyone with his brother. “Who do you think’s more curious about the other, you or me?” she asked, after introducing herself.

“It is hard to say,” Spock admitted.

“Well, let’s burn off some curiosity,” she said. “Walk me into town and I’ll tell you everything you want to know.”

Marguerite truly was as curious about Spock as he was about her, and they spent their fifteen-minute hike toward the small town trading stories about their current work. Margee (“Mar-gee, hard g, like girl,” she said), was a ceramic artist. She sold her work through a gallery/shop in town, but she made most of her living doing commissioned works. She and Sybok had met when he’d come in to her studio to let her know that her website was terrible.

“He thought I should be trying to sell things over an app, and I laughed in his face,” she said as they approached the short main street. She took two rickety wooden steps at a time to get to street level. “Then I made him buy me a coffee to make up for being such an asshole, and we’ve basically been together since.”

Spock looked down the small street, taking in a grocer, two cafes, and a bank of smaller businesses. Again, it was not the place he would have pictured his brother, but it fit, somehow. “Had he already moved here?”

She shook her head. “That came later. I may have goaded him into buying the place because I knew the light was so good. Come on. I’ll show you my studio, then I’ll buy you a coffee and mine you for all kinds of embarrassing stories from his childhood.”

Spock returned to the house on his own that afternoon, after the promised coffee and stories. The walk was lovely, through a thick forest of old, exceptionally tall and thin trees, well suited to the wet climate. Spock paused within sight of Sybok’s house and pulled out his phone, curious to see what the National Weather Service was saying for the area. He had spotted a band of cirrostratus clouds earlier that probably meant a warm front, and possibly more rain, would move in overnight.

A text message notification was already on the screen. From Jim.

_You left town?_

Spock considered how to reply, and decided he did not yet want to give anything away. _I had vacation time scheduled, as you know._

_Right. Wouldn’t want to let that go to waste or anything._

_What are you talking about?_

Spock’s phone rang, then, and he answered it even as his heart began to pound. “Jim?”

“I went by your place,” Jim said.

“You did? But — you left.”

“To think,” Jim said. “I didn’t up and leave the entire fucking city.”

Spock stopped on the path and stepped to the side, hearing a runner approaching from behind. “I do not understand why you are angry about this.”

“I fucking know!” Jim said, probably yelling, though the phone seemed to dampen the noise. “Spock, you just — I should be used to this by now, I thought I was, but — the way you can just, just go on like business as usual, like nothing has happened or ever touches you —“

Spock actually flinched. “What —“ he started, and then realized he, too, was about to yell. He lowered his voice, not wanting to startle the runner or be caught shouting if Margee had decided to catch up. “What are you talking about?”

“McCoy told me, after Montana, he said you went right on the air while we were still stuck in the fire, and he said — I mean, I didn’t believe him, but I watched it later, and you — you looked fine. But I thought, that’s just, he’s just a professional —“

“I am," Spock said, feeling wounded, now, almost sick from it. “I was doing my job.”

“And we all know how you feel about our duty to the job,” Jim said, nearly a sneer.

Spock covered his eyes with one hand, listening only to the sound of his own swift breath. He didn’t understand why Jim was so angry or where any of this was coming from. After all of the time they’d spent together, all of the care and desire and love — that Jim would think he could just turn it off, that he was as emotionless as the ridiculous reviewers online — it hurt in a way Spock hadn’t remembered he could be hurt.

“If you do not understand my reasons for continuing to work while you were unaccounted for, I am not sure I can explain them,” Spock said. He lowered his hand, dug his fingernails into one palm to keep his voice. “And while it is always a pleasure to be yelled at and accused of _having no feelings_ , I think your purpose for the call was to know if I had left town. I have. I will be back one week from Monday.” He heard Jim take a breath, as though preparing to speak, and he rushed on. “With that established, I do not see a need to continue this conversation. Good-bye, Jim.” He hung up before he could hear Jim yell, again.

As he lowered his phone, he glanced around. It had been only a few minutes, but he felt surprised to find himself still in the forest. The light through the trees still filtered through in green-white shards; the air still smelled of pine and dirt and faintly, from far away, the chill of the sea. Jim was back in New York, fuming and thinking Spock had never really cared, and Spock was standing in a forest in Washington, caught in green sunbeams, feeling his own heart break.

* * *

The rest of his time with Sybok passed quickly. They ate well, chatted companionably, and socialized frequently with Margee. Spock felt strangely at peace in Sybok’s home, certain that he would be welcome there no matter what happened, even as he began to feel restless to get back into a routine.

“You don’t have to go back,” Sybok said. They were riding the ferry into Seattle so that he could show Spock around his actual workplace. It had been nearly a week. “I could make it pretty comfortable for you out here. And I’m reasonably certain Seattle has weather that needs reporting.”

Spock stared out at the bay. Fog was visible in the distance, a blanket of clouds over the gray-blue water. Above, the sky showed signs of clearing, but Spock knew there would be further precipitation in the afternoon.

“No,” he said. “I have a job that I enjoy.”

“Do you?” Sybok asked. “It seems more like you have people you enjoy working with and sometimes get to do the science you like best, when you’re not being interrupted by having to appear on television.”

Spock glanced over. Sybok had put on a long, black coat for their trip, which gave him the appearance of wearing somewhat regal robes. His hair was shot through with more streaks of white than Spock had remembered, though he spied at least two strands of green woven through, too. Altogether, Spock thought he’d aged well, and soon, Spock would need to be less surprised by his maturity. “That’s very insightful,” he said.

“You’d be surprised how far one can go in the tech world if you combine a brilliant coding intellect with a bit of compassionate humanity,” he said, grinning.

“No, I don’t think I would be surprised,” Spock said, and he rested his hand on Sybok’s shoulder for just a moment. “Thank you.”

“You are always most welcome,” Sybok said, and then pulled him into a bear hug for which Spock was, for once, grateful.


	21. Chapter 21

Spock’s new job came with a new office. Having an office at all was a mark of both authority and separation. Had he been asked upon initially receiving his promotion, Spock would have turned it down. Returning to work just over a week after Jim had walked out of the apartment, though, he was glad for it, as it meant he had somewhere to effectively hide from his team.

Of course, it wasn’t really hiding. No. He was busy. He walked into the building after his vacation with a new title and new obligations. Though he had anticipated the editorial duties that would befall him, now holding some responsibility for all evening programming, he had not adequately anticipated the administrative duties that would come with it. Every show had a crew complement. Every show wanted to maintain or expand that crew, and so he had a parade of show-runners marching through his office as soon as he returned, each requesting consideration for the fine (expensive) work they wanted to continue to do.

One of these visits was from Leonard McCoy.

Spock had braced himself for the meeting as soon as he had realized it would be necessary. He had scheduled it himself by e-mail, choosing a time in the late afternoon of his first day back when he felt they might both easily escape by claiming a next appointment. He’d considered asking T’Pring to sit in with him but had finally chosen not to involve her, as this felt like a personal conflict, not one in which he should involve his professional colleagues. (In addition, while away, he had avoided all personal queries from his team).

So he was sitting at his new, empty desk, staring at his empty e-mail inbox, when McCoy walked in. He did not knock, which, Spock thought, set a certain tone.

“So this is where they stuck you, huh?” McCoy said, looking around. The walls were bare, a pale gray that made the room look clean and somehow very dim, and his one built-in white bookshelf had yet to collect anything beyond a single row of meteorology texts. His phone and computer were the only objects on the glass-topped desk. Spock suddenly felt a wash of nostalgia for the chaos of McCoy’s usual workspace, the cluttered conference room below.

“Hello, Dr. McCoy.”

“Mm-hm. This is terrible, Spock. You should call someone. The damn couch looks like a slab of marble mated with a marshmallow and the kid got the worst qualities of both.” He sat on the objectionable sofa anyway, making a noise of deep disdain as he did so.

Spock continued to study him. He had expected something — worse. Vitriol. Cursing. Aspersions, both deserved and not, upon his parentage, his behavior, his character. This casual, grumpy banter was too normal, too much like things had been before… Spock narrowed his eyes. “Have you been in contact with Jim?”

“Of course I have,” McCoy said. “God forbid he ever inconvenience Sulu, when he could inconvenience me for free. Oh, you were expecting more yelling, is that it?” Spock nodded. He did not want to speak. The entire situation felt too unpredictable. “Well, the thing is — I’ve talked to Jim, and I’ve told him this, too. You were wrong — but you weren’t totally wrong.” He shrugged. “I can’t say as I’ve enjoyed watching him try to kill himself in every significant weather event of the past 10 years, either.”

Unsure of what the right thing to say might be, Spock simply nodded. “Thank you.”

“Oh, don’t thank me yet,” McCoy said. “Just because I’m not gonna yell at you about Jim doesn’t mean we’re friends now or anything.” His lips twitched slightly as he spoke, as though fighting down a smile.

“Perish the thought,” Spock said, hoping he had better control over his own expression.

“I want to keep my show. And the crew. And anyone who doesn’t want to move to mornings with Jim from Enterprise and Boldly Go should get a spot on whatever you’re cooking up before you look for external hires.”

“I concur,” Spock said, “and have already made the same offer.”

McCoy’s brows furrowed, as though he was disappointed by the lack of resistance. “Well, then, I want in on your staff meetings, too.”

This was a surprise, but not out of the realm of what was appropriate. With Jim part of the morning show, McCoy was the closest Spock now had to an editorial equal, outside of T’Pring. “I have been given to understand that you despise meetings.”

“Oh, yeah, you bet I do. But if I’m not gonna be able to get the scuttlebutt from your pillow talk with Jim anymore, I’d better show up to get it myself.” He frowned, suddenly, and said, “Sorry.”

Spock nodded absently. “That will be fine. I will e-mail you a calendar invite.”

“Oh, good Lord, don’t make me learn how to use that thing,” he said, and stood up. As he reached the door, he said, voice gruff but somehow gentle, “Take care of yourself, Spock.”

“Thank you, Doctor.”

That painless meeting left him unprepared for the next. After a peaceful hour of checking his e-mail — including responding to correspondence from Dr. Rizzo, whom he had been inspired to contact after speaking with Sybok — Spock heard a single, sharp knock on his door. Before he could say anything, T’Pring walked in, and Spock wondered if the door would ever serve any purpose.

“Welcome back,” T’Pring said. She glanced around the room, raising an approving eyebrow. “I believe our staff meetings would be quite comfortable here in the future.”

“Yes, I agree,” Spock said, gesturing toward the small couch. She took a seat there, and Spock sat in the armchair that was perpendicular. “I assume that you have not come merely to compliment my office.”

“Correct,” she said. “And while there is business I would like to conduct, I think you won’t be surprised to find out that I’ve also been charged with reporting back to the team on your mental and emotional well being.”

Now Spock raised an eyebrow. “They felt you were the best candidate for that job?”

“Due to our ‘shared history,'” she said, making finger quotes with obvious distaste. Then she looked at him, and Spock turned his own attention toward the small coffeemaker in the corner of the room.

“Would you care for something to drink?”

“Spock,” T’Pring said, voice only slightly softer than usual. “Where have you been?”

He said, “I will make some coffee,” and stood. With his back to T’Pring, he could speak more easily. “I have been visiting my brother.”

“Sybok?”

“Indeed.”

“Where? Why?”

“He owns a home on an island near Seattle. Convenient to work for him, an excellent vacation stop for everyone else.” He poured water into the coffeemaker, pleased with the steadiness of his voice. He turned back to T’Pring as the coffee began brewing. “I’m afraid I do not have any cream.”

“That is of no concern,” T’Pring said, and rose from her seat. Spock was briefly confused as she walked to the office door, then felt resigned when she opened it to let Nyota enter. “Thank you for coming so quickly,” T’Pring said. Nyota nodded, stepping in and immediately taking the second seat on Spock’s couch. “Spock was just telling me how he spent his break with Sybok.”

“Sybok? Really?” Nyota raised both eyebrows. “Why?”

Spock crossed his arms. “We have not seen much of each other in the past years, and I thought it was time to begin remedying that.”

He could practically sense how deeply both women distrusted this statement. “And so you took a week’s worth of vacation with zero notice to do just that?”

“I have months of vacation built up. It felt like a good time to use it.”

“Mm-hm, and nothing to do with the fact that your boyfriend had just moved out, right?”

Spock turned back to the coffee maker, willing it to speed up its work. There was already enough for a single cup, he thought, and then realized he had no mugs to offer either woman. This was a perfect metaphor for something in his recent life, he decided, and turned to take the armchair. Two sets of dark eyes watched him, two women who knew him better than almost anyone else. He felt, suddenly, very tired. “I think it is likely impossible and at the least unproductive to argue that Jim’s decision had nothing to do with my absence,” he said, focused on the door instead of either woman’s face.

“You mean because Jim —“

And that was actually a topic he did not want to discuss, so he interrupted. “I also felt that having a break between my old position and my new one would be advantageous.”

“So you flew to Seattle.”

“Yes.” The coffeemaker bubbled behind them, the smell wafting through the office. Spock wished for a mug just to have something to do with his hands. The women shared a look. “I needed some time away, myself.” He looked back at them. “May I ask how, in my absence, you came to know that Jim had — that he and I were no longer —“ He looked down at his hands, surprised at the effort it was taking to finish the sentence. “No longer seeing one another.”

Nyota’s voice was soft as she spoke. “Jim told us.” Spock raised his eyebrows. “The day after you met us for lunch, he came in with McCoy, I guess to talk with the crews of their shows. He asked if we’d seen you, said he wasn’t staying at your place anymore.”

“That is true.” He took a slow, calming breath, not thinking about Jim asking about him. “I believe that this will be a change for the best. I will be better able to focus on my new responsibilities.”

T’Pring rolled her eyes. “Oh, certainly,” she said, “I can see how —“

“I would prefer,” Spock said, almost too softly, “if we could remain focused on our work. Please.”

“Of course.” Nyota reached out and gripped his hand, and Spock nodded, trying to show that he was OK when he still felt like he was walking around in a visible cloud of despair and mortification. “So here you are,” Nyota said. “And what are you going to do?”

“I’ve been considering that,” Spock said, and he folded his hands together and leaned back in his chair. “I will manage the evening as directed, placing an emphasis on climate reporting wherever possible. In between, I intend to return to my publishing schedule. And I will, of course, support any changes you would like to discuss in your own new roles.”

Both women looked at each other, then back at Spock. “We do have some suggestions,” T’Pring said. “Shall we compare our plans?”

“By all means.”

* * *

For the next six weeks, Spock’s focus was entirely on the work. He came in early and left so late that it often seemed to make no sense to leave at all. The couch in his office was exactly as uncomfortable as McCoy had described, but it was closer than his apartment and came with less baggage. The projects he had in mind with his team would reshape FWN and not entirely in the way that Karen Komack might wish, but Spock found them engrossing, if not energizing. He threw himself into the planning and research for the new shows they were recommending during the long days. In the evenings, he worked through a network of global colleagues to study new observational data for use in refining the existing global model. That meant long days, late nights, and little sleep. That was fine with Spock, actually. His bed was far too empty, his refrigerator stark and dreary now that it was only stocked for one, his mornings alone at home too quiet to feel like home again.

Sometimes, when he’d stayed too long at the network, he would watch the morning show on the live feed. Jim looked great, and Jim looked terrible. His reports were accurate and even sometimes entertaining, and he bantered easily with his co-hosts between solo reports, but Spock could spot the flaws. He could see how far from truly engaged Jim really was, as though he were letting the routine carry him through or, perhaps, hold him down. His best lines were spontaneous, but he seemed to improvise less than usual. Most of his interactions had a degree of artificiality to them, and Spock couldn’t tell whether this would be obvious to others.

He couldn’t decide whether he felt bad about his own role in this or not. It had been Jim’s decisions that had led to his morning show reassignment, after all, though Spock’s in-depth reports on those decisions had also contributed. However, his reports had shown almost nothing that the video hadn’t shown, so it seemed ridiculous for Jim to blame Spock so entirely for his transfer.

Still, given all of that, Spock continued to replay the entire affair, wondering where he could have made another decision, where things might have been saved. He tried and failed to convince himself that he wouldn’t go back and redo things if he had the chance.

About two months after his promotion, Spock’s new plans for the network came up against their first test. Karen liked a unified evening slate, which Spock thought was sensible. She had, generally, been supportive of his emphasis on scientific reporting and modeling, as well, which had been a point that had kept Spock in her corner for years. However, now that she had won the battle for the evening reprogramming with her father, her interest in scientific modeling and becoming a more climate-change-focused network seemed to diminish, while her desire for more unified programming increased. Thus it should have come as less of a surprise when she called him to her office one afternoon to declare she had decided that they should do a snake theme week.

“Shark Week is overdone,” she said. “But snakes are everywhere. There are so many angles for it, too! Water snake danger after flooding, or rattlesnakes on hikes, or even a piece about pythons — remember when that one escaped in Florida?”

“I do not fully understand how we can incorporate snake information in our currently scheduled programs,” Spock said, standing at what felt like parade rest before her desk.

Her smile was blinding, not kind. “But I know you’ll figure it out. Let’s plan for at least five days of programming. Can you do it in three weeks? I’ll check with you next Thursday.”

Spock nodded and left. When he ran into Harrison in the hallway, he decided to let the man see him roll his eyes. “Ah, good, Spock, that saves me a trip,” Harrison said, following him to the elevator.

“How may I be of assistance?” Spock asked, pushing the button for the main broadcast floor. He wanted to talk over the snake ideas with his team.

“That is a tantalizing question,” Harrison said, grin broad and predatory, “but not one I’ll answer to its full potential in these quaintly video-recorded elevators. I needed to ask you: are you still fucking Jim Kirk?”

The doors had slid open just as he was saying the last, and Spock frowned, seeing two interns waiting with suddenly reddening faces. Spock said, “One moment,” and hit the button for the next floor up, both to close the doors and to take them to his own floor. This was not a conversation to have in the main area, after all.

“I am not currently involved with anyone," he said, refraining from stating the obvious: that it was none of Harrison’s business.

“Excellent,” he said, moving a step closer before the doors had even opened. The front of his shoulder suddenly pressed into the back of Spock’s, and Harrison leaned in to say, very quietly, “I had thought you would have told me sooner.” His mouth was so close to Spock’s ear that he felt the air Harrison expelled when speaking.

Spock practically fell into the hallway, nearly colliding with an administrative assistant. As the assistant stepped on to the elevator, Spock turned back to Harrison, keeping a straight face. “Was there more you needed to discuss?”

“Certainly, later,” Harrison said, winking, and then the elevator doors closed. Spock stood still for just a moment, taking a few slow, deep breaths, and then turned toward his office. He had known, of course, that Harrison had a physical and non-professional interest in him, but he hadn’t thought the man would ever make an actual move in the office. Surely, someone who worked for legal and had the human resources regulations memorized would never be so stupid as to come on to a colleague at work. Then again, Harrison had proven he wasn’t the most predictable of men.

When he reached his office, he remembered that it hadn’t been where he had wanted to go. Tired, he made a cup of coffee, then sent T’Pring, Nyota, Stonn, and McCoy (for good measure) messages to see if they were available to meet in his office. All answered in the affirmative, which gave Spock ten minutes to prepare himself for their arrival. He had email he could attend to or a few call backs that wouldn’t take more than two minutes; he could probably process several pages of upcoming script, as well, or review a flagged section of last night’s broadcast where Chekov had spotted a faulty translation of the current models. These would have all been good uses of his time.

Instead, he rested his head in one hand and flipped through his text messages with the other. He’d had two from his brother during the day. Sybok had started texting him regularly after he’d left Seattle. Spock suspected he had a program set up to automatically send him check-in messages, and Spock had been testing its limits recently to figure out whether it was always his brother or sometimes an algorithm that was responding. Right now, he answered a message from 2:15 reading _How’s the afternoon going so far?_ with, _All is well. Zucchini_ to see if random words would be acknowledged.

His father had sent a brief message the night before, also checking up on his well being. Spock found it both annoying and also, if he were honest, a bit touching that his family worried so much about him. He replied to his father’s message, confirming an upcoming dinner date with him and Perrin at their now-habitual Indian restaurant. At least Sarek had taken the news of his split with Jim in a sanguine manner and could be counted on not to bring it up at dinner.

Three other non-urgent messages awaited him, from Nyota, Rand, and Chekov, but a fourth message demanded some reply. Spock sighed, reading it, and wished he could have pretended not to receive it.

The message was from Christopher Pike: _Will be in NYC this weekend. Drinks? 4 p.m. Sun, anywhere but FWN building’s bar._

At Jim’s urging, Spock had actually e-mailed Pike back last year, and they had struck up a staggered but helpful e-mail correspondence. After Jim had left, Spock had found it hard to reply to Pike, unsure of what to say. They had never really been friends beyond their work, though they had been friendly. Now, he knew that rebuffing Pike’s offer would either ensure that it would not be made again, or that it would be made again — but in an official capacity, as the news director at FBN. Either way, Spock forced himself to look at this professionally, and he knew that he had to meet with Pike.

_Yes,_ he wrote back. _Suggest Brass Plate Bar, near your old apartment._

_See you then,_ Pike wrote back.

Spock just stared at the message for a moment, surprised at the immediacy, but he chalked it up to Pike being always on the phone.

He checked the time: four minutes left.

Then, he engaged in a game that he’d been playing with himself daily for the past two months. He won the game now more than he had in the beginning, but today didn’t feel like a winning day. The game was this: he let his thumb hover over Jim’s name in his contact list. Tapping it would bring up their most recent conversations. Spock had disabled the feature that erased old messages just to be sure to keep some of these. In particular, there was one message string — sent from Montana — that Spock had trouble ignoring: _Don’t be mad. I love you. Talk soon_.

He hadn’t sent Jim any messages since Seattle, and he’d received none, either. At this point, he was afraid to send a message in part because he thought Jim might have changed his number. Finding that out second-hand would be difficult, Spock thought. Knowing what, exactly, to say was even harder.

He had just let his finger rest on Jim’s name when a warning knock fell on his door, a half-second before it swung open. “What’s today’s special?” McCoy said, walking in.

Spock quickly turned off his phone screen. “Snakes,” he answered.

“Oh, I’m gonna hate this, aren’t I?”

“You will not be alone,” Spock said, and McCoy rolled his eyes in the way that Spock now knew meant he was secretly enjoying himself.

They had been working together much more closely in the last few months. Spock still thought McCoy’s folksy manner was annoying and, at times, that it was played up too much, but he’d found that it hid a brilliant mind and a fantastic work ethic. When Spock had explained to McCoy his plans for unifying the evening, McCoy had taken a few moments to listen, and then to consider, before coming back with several valid (if hyperbolic in their expression) concerns. Once Spock had answered them, McCoy had been fully on board with their ongoing project.

Nyota called it “Project Takeover," which was a bit dramatic for Spock’s taste but not inaccurate. Essentially, they were working to remake FWN into a go-to resource for science, health, and technology news, through a lens of climate change and awareness. They would still report the weather, but it would be weather in context, weather as lesson and symptom of greater forces. To do this, they would unite the evening programs under the banner of critical climate issues.

He expected serious pushback from upper management as this goal became clear. Karen and her father cared most about ratings, and Spock hoped they could leverage that by showing that covering complex topics could also draw in viewers. Ideally, he wanted their segments to be picked up on the broader networks, building the integration of climate science into everyday news, until they were well regarded enough that both Komacks would have to conclude they were valuable.

Already, Spock had reconfigured every evening show to follow certain patterns that, he hoped, would be resistant to Karen’s meddling or whims and would also bring the channel better viewership. Each show now included a thirty-second local weather brief every 10 minutes, prerecorded and deployed using a complicated algorithm that Nyota and Mr. Scott had come up with. This was Spock’s nod to everyone’s perception of why people tuned in. However, now, in the first four minutes of the show, the anchors tied whatever they would be doing to one of four over-arching climate science themes, which shared graphics across the entire network. The concepts were reviewed at the end of each program, as well, whether it was a normal hour of daily highlight reels or a scripted show like _MedBay_. Nyota had developed an online quiz that viewers could take and a running scoreboard where they could compete over weather knowledge. Through the business office, they had recruited several tie-in sponsors to offer prizes each week for those with the highest score, and the PR office had been delighted to help them tie in to social media for their promos. They had also started to brief and train the staff in contextualizing video clips, so that there were fewer “wow, look at that cool lightning!” videos and more shots that could be explained as important weather phenomena.

The redesign had already begun to connect the evening shows, which was ostensibly what Karen had wanted; it made better use of the climate models that Spock’s team had always been working on; and it left time for every working on-air and behind-the-scenes staff member to continue doing what the network had always done best: report on, and live from, the weather, but now with a solid scientific focus. No more weathermen dressed up in front of green screens: Spock’s evening broadcasters would be real explorers.

And they would handle the snakes.

His team was in agreement, and they made some tentative plans for Snake Week tie-ins that afternoon, then split up the jobs of who got to tell which show’s producers the news. After they had left, Spock sent Karen a quick message to let her know that things would work out fine.

_Great_ , she wrote back, _& please get with a.m. show to make sure coordination happens there 2. thx._

Spock stared at the message for a solid minute before he clicked twice and forwarded it to McCoy. He had been Spock’s unofficial liaison to the morning show, through Jim, who was still apparently living at his apartment. Spock hoped he wouldn’t mind making the role a bit more official, and he made a quick note to himself to invest in a bottle of McCoy’s favorite bourbon as soon as possible.

* * *

It turned out, he didn’t need to buy the bottle: McCoy brought one himself, three nights later when he knocked on Spock’s door. It was late on a Saturday night, and he was surprised to see McCoy around. Spock surfaced from an in-depth study of statistical projections to greet McCoy.

“Jesus Christ, Spock, are you living here now?” McCoy said, settling on the couch he so loved to hate. “Did you wear that shirt yesterday?”

“No,” Spock said. He had worn it the day before yesterday, then sent it out for laundry and received it in time to put on that morning in the gym. “But I am gratified and a bit troubled to learn that you watch my fashion choices so closely.”

“I just bet. Pass me a glass and come sit over here. Actually, get two glasses.”

Spock studied him, then nodded. His work at the moment wasn’t so urgent, and this call seemed unusual. He placed two short tumblers on the coffee table, then sat in the arm chair perpendicular to McCoy. “To what do I owe this visit, Doctor?”

“Oh, it’s a house call,” McCoy said. He had rolled up his shirtsleeves and wore jeans, which meant he likely had not been in the office most of the day. This signaled something to discuss that was not work-related, which made Spock think quickly of Jim, before ruthlessly squashing anything that could feel like interest or hope. “First of all, Spock, I’m worried about you,” McCoy said, though his expression seemed to indicate this feeling or its announcement were causing him physical pain. “I know you’re taking this project seriously, and I applaud that, but — you gotta leave the building sometime. Go do something non-work-related at least once every couple of days, just to remember that you can.”

Spock raised an eyebrow. “What do you suggest?”

“Christ, I dunno. What did you used to do, when you weren’t here?” Spock kept staring at him until McCoy rolled his eyes. “Before Jim, I mean. Did you have a hobby? Other friends?”

“Both before and during my relationship with Jim, my main social contacts were at work,” Spock said.

McCoy sighed and then took a heavy drink. “Work with me, OK? What’s — you have some other interests.”

“I enjoy wine collecting and the occasional tasting,” Spock said. He left unsaid that he had discovered that tastings were better when one could attend with an entertaining partner, and that wine drinking was also better undertaken with company, once home. “You are suggesting I return to this pursuit?”

“I’m suggesting that this breakup has been harder on you than you’re admitting to anyone,” McCoy said, voice gruff but somehow terribly gentle, “and that it’s probably time you made some token effort toward getting over it.”

Spock nodded, thinking. He looked past McCoy to the bare walls of his office, for which he had not yet been able to decide on any appropriate decoration. Others on this floor had inspirational panoramas or collections of family photos. Spock had one photo that would fit perfectly, but he couldn’t bring himself to place it there. In fact, he had gone so far as to wrap it and bring it in to the office before deciding he couldn’t put it up. He also couldn’t bring himself to put up anything else. To McCoy, he said, quietly, “I understand what you are saying, though I do not agree.”

“You don’t think you’re upset? Spock, come on — even T’Pring’s worried about you.”

“No,” Spock said, “you are correct in your assessment of my emotional state. It is — not good. But I do not, yet, want to begin the process of, ah, ‘getting over’ my relationship with Jim.”

McCoy took another sip of his drink, paused, stared at Spock for a long moment, and then set his glass down to add more to it. He also added some to the empty glass that was likely meant for Spock. “Just hold that in your hand, OK? Makes me feel like I’m not drinking alone, and we both need this.”

The glass felt colder than Spock had expected, and he cradled it by the base, staring at the amber liquid inside. It always smelled better than it tasted, he thought, and let himself enjoy the aroma. “May I ask why you’re talking to me about this now?” Spock said, as he watched McCoy fidget on the couch.

McCoy sighed heavily. “Because Jim’s seeing someone,” he said.

Spock nodded, or, at least, he felt his head move up and down. “I see. May I ask who?”

“Lori Ciana. The PR lady? Or, she was PR here, I guess she moved to a firm somewhere.”

Spock remembered Ciana. Tall, beautiful, blonde, outgoing. She and Jim together would be a telegenic dream. Jim’s mother would probably love her. “Ah,” Spock said, and then drained the drink McCoy had poured him.

“That’s what I thought,” McCoy said. “Look, I don’t know how serious it is, or even if it’s serious at all. I don’t think he even meant for me to know.”

“I understand,” Spock said, setting his glass down on the table. McCoy poured him another, his face conveying pity and agitation in equal measure. Spock thanked him for the drink and took another swallow.

“Mmhm. I’ve got Uhura on standby. Should I call her?”

The bourbon pooled on his tongue for only a moment, and then Spock forced the mouthful down. He gasped a bit after it, and his eyes watered. He hadn’t really known that something would feel worse than watching Jim walk out of the apartment. Now, even after so carefully guarding his heart with a great wall of persistent work for the last two months, he felt so — so angry, and so sad, and so hurt that he felt physically ill from it. “Yes,” he managed, dabbing at the burning bourbon tears. “I would appreciate that.”

By the time Nyota arrived, Spock had finished a second drink and begun to consider a third. He’d also heard a few more details from McCoy, who had alternated from needing to fill the silence between them and sipping morosely on his own share of the bourbon. Jim had been out to dinner with Ciana twice, that McCoy knew of, and McCoy had interrupted them in some kind of intimate moment once that week, when he had returned home earlier than usual. Jim had refused to say anything about it — in part, Spock suspected, because McCoy had “read him the riot act” about his own coping with the end of their relationship.

Nyota swept in and shook her head, but she didn’t say anything or openly express pity. Spock was grateful. He stood, surprised to be a bit unsteady, and McCoy rose, too. “Just — think about what I said, all right?” McCoy said.

Spock pulled on his coat, his movements feeling slow, stiff. “I assure you, I will think of little else.”

“Not — I meant about, you know, getting out more. Getting on with… everything.”

Spock reached out and briefly gripped McCoy’s shoulder. “Thank you, Leonard. I will.”

In the car back to his apartment, Nyota curled her hand around his. “If anything, she’s his rebound woman," she said. “It won’t last and it doesn’t mean anything.”

Spock rested his forehead on the cool window. “You do not believe that. Even if she is some form of rebound interest, it does mean something.” The city slid by outside, blue street lights competing with flashes of neon. He had not left the FWN tower in 63 hours, and now, the exhaustion of it all seemed to be swamping him at once. “It means that there is no chance — that we are — that he is moving on.”

“Oh, Spock,” Nyota said, softly, and Spock closed his eyes against the city and rushing feeling of everything flying past him, so much now beyond his reach.

“I believe I wanted to marry him,” Spock said. His voice was clear, which surprised him, because his throat felt tight as he spoke. “I had been thinking about it, before Montana. I would have asked him, within a few months.”

“I know,” Nyota said. “Have you talked to him at all, since?”

“Only once,” Spock said. “It seems illogical to try any contact now. Though, I suppose, some professional contact is unavoidable.”

“Let’s not worry about that yet.” She rubbed his shoulder. “Tonight is your worst wine in massive quantities and, if we have to, I’ll run out for really decadent ice cream or pastries or something.”

It didn’t sound good, but nothing really did, and it took Spock a moment to articulate why. “Could we — would it be an imposition to go to your apartment, instead?”

“No, not at all,” she said, and then, finally, Spock felt a little bit better.

* * *

He woke the next day knowing it was already much past his usual time to rise. Nyota’s bed was as comfortable as it had ever been, and he felt a wash of silent gratitude to her for allowing him to stay there the night before. They had indulged not in wine but in some form of chocolate liquor that had mixed well with ice cream, with milk, and with nothing but an ice cube as the evening had progressed. Spock had a mild headache to remind him of exactly how much he had consumed.

Along the way, he was certain he had confessed more to Nyota than he had meant to about his feelings for Jim, but he had decided to take her at her word that she would not judge him negatively. He had also decided it would not be logical to judge himself; nothing he’d said was untrue. He had been — and perhaps still was — in love with Jim Kirk. Those weren’t feelings that simply went away, even if Jim did.

Nyota had left him a note, along with a boxed egg sandwich in the refrigerator. She had headed to work by way of the gym and a few other errands, but, as the note reminded him, he technically had the day off. DO NOT COME IN the note said. DON’T MAKE ME GET SCOTTY TO TRACK YOUR BADGE.

That was not an idle threat, and it was also not something he wanted anyone to do, so Spock resigned himself to a day away from FWN. Maybe that was for the better. As McCoy had pointed out, he had been spending too much — maybe all — of his time at work recently, and it wasn’t healthy. He needed fresh clothes, for one, and probably a fresh perspective on his apartment. Armed with this resolve (and several of Nyota’s Tylenol), Spock took a cab back home.

As he walked inside, he was faced again with the biggest problem: the kitchen island. Each time he’d walked in here for the past two months, he’d relived their break up, swamped with the confusion and then anxiety and near-panic he had felt. Now, he stood and gave a critical eye to the apartment’s interior, then called his brother.

“Interior design? I think my office there used someone, Gracie or Gravy or something like that? She was supposed to be a wonder. You want me to make an introduction?”

“I want you to redecorate my apartment,” Spock said, “if you are amenable, and serious in your offers of ridiculous monetary gifts.”

“I am, and I am,” Sybok said. “Is there a reason for this?”

It was useless to withhold information from his brother. “Jim is seeing someone else.” There was a pause, then a flutter of keyboard strokes. “Sybok. Do not do anything harmful or even what you would consider ‘neutral’ to Jim, or his associates, or his electronics.”

Sybok sighed. “I’m pretty sure this is actually neutral, though.”

“Don’t,” Spock said, and then, more gently, “though I do appreciate the offer. I do not need help tracking Jim. I do need your help in erasing his presence from my home.”

“Your wish, etc. etc.,” Sybok said. Two hours later, a design consultation had been scheduled, along with a tentative schedule for when the work would be done and an accompanying reservation at a ridiculously luxurious hotel in Midtown while things were rearranged. If all went well, he would have a redone space within a month. If only the rest of this were so easily fixed, he thought.

At least that afternoon he had plans to get out of the house: drinks with Christopher Pike loomed on his schedule, and Spock fantasized about postponing until he was in a car on the way to the bar.

Brass Plate was a favorite bar of Stonn’s, which marked it well distant from Spock’s own taste. They served only a few, average wines and the normal liquor selection, in an atmosphere of old New York nostalgia and new New York prices. A brass rail ran around the maybe-mahogany bar and flickering “gas” lights swung over most of the leatherette booths. The food, at least, was decent, though it tended toward messy sandwiches and grilled meats. Spock thought Pike would fit right in.

He took a booth and ordered water and a glass of the better white wine while he waited. Spock had worked as Christopher Pike’s executive assistant for 18 months while he was finishing his Ph.D. They had been grueling and also enjoyable times. Pike had hired him after a chance meeting during a talk at M.I.T., and they had both understood from the start that Spock’s tenure would be limited. He had taken the position as a way to open doors to employment with either FWN or FBN in the weather and climate news section, and Pike had been an excellent mentor and promoter in that sense. Pike had called Admiral Komack personally to recommend Spock for an open weekend anchor position.

In return, Spock knew he had been a nearly ideal assistant for Pike. The term “assistant” was actually both underselling the role and an exact explanation: Spock had assisted Pike, over their year and a half together, with nearly every project that had come across his desk. As the news director for FBN, those projects had ranged from scheduling sit-down interviews with the celebrities of the week for the morning shows to working out legal logistics for correspondents traveling in and out of war zones with questionably obtained video. He’d briefed renowned on-air talents with enough background to make them sound knowledgeable on live television, coached nervous interview subjects in public speaking techniques, helped arrange a presidential debate, and, once, briefly babysat a rare infant tiger. Spock had learned a great deal from graduate school, but everything he knew about the way television networks really ran, and most of what he knew about interpersonal dynamics and project management, he had learned at Pike’s shoulder.

Yet now, he was not that excited to see him. Partly, this was because he was not at all sure why Pike would want to meet with him. Partly, it was because Spock’s work with Pike had ended in a bar similar to this one, and he hated dredging that argument up. It hadn’t been the only time they had ever disagreed, but it had been the one time when Spock had actually rejected Pike’s advice outright.

“Spock, you’re gonna do great at anything you set your mind to,” Pike had said near the end of their meal. It had been a pleasant meeting, really, just another going away dinner before Spock moved permanently into his role at FWN. “But just for a minute, with just the two of us here, I want you to really think about whether being on-air talent is the role you want.”

It had taken him by surprise. No other career path made any sense for a man of his abilities and degrees. Spock had studied broadcast journalism and meteorology, had spent the past year and a half shadowing a director of a broadcast network, and had a job offer on the table that would boost him up the ladder. He’d never made a secret of his goal to be on air and to host his own shows. Pike, though, had eloquently argued that Spock was seeking a goal just because it was obvious, not because it was the right fit. “You’re a natural at this job,” he’d said, making Spock frown. “Not the assistant job. My job. Production, direction, management — Spock, you can’t tell me you don’t see it. You’d be able to pull all the strings, show off all of those brains, and you’d never have to worry about the camera at all.”

“The camera does not worry me,” Spock said.

“Maybe not,” Pike had said, and then he’d shrugged. “Doesn’t mean it shouldn’t.”

Hearing it had been offensive to an ego Spock still sometimes liked to pretend he didn’t have. He was certainly aware that his own on-air persona was not as charismatic as others’ were, and he had made his peace with that. Sometimes, viewers wanted stability and knowledgeability. Until he had worked with Jim, Spock had never been on anyone’s highlight reel for good clips, but he’d been first in accurate predications every year since he’d joined FWN.

And maybe that proved some of Pike’s points. Maybe his new job did, too. Was he clinging to his own on-air role too tightly? Was that what Pike wanted to talk about? Spock couldn’t imagine it was, not really: Pike and Komack had moved from grudging respect to outright enemies during Spock’s time at the network, which meant this wasn’t going to be a purely business call. Pike had no say in what went on the air at FWN and, Spock thought, nearly zero interest, likewise. Perhaps this was simply a social call.

“Hey, nice place,” Pike said, sliding into the booth. “Pretty new?”

“A year or two,” Spock confirmed.

“Good to see you,” Pike said, smiling. “That’s been a year or two, too, hasn’t it?”

“At least,” Spock said. He looked at Pike for just a few seconds, taking in the salt-and-pepper hair, the fine lines around his eyes. “It is good to see you, as well. You look well.”

“I can’t complain.” Pike ordered a drink and began perusing the menu. “You want to eat? I know it’s early, but my day has been kind of messed up, and I only have reception food to look forward to tonight.”

“I will have something,” Spock said, having already decided on the lentil soup. “Is this the reception that has brought you to town?”

“Yeah. Livia’s picking up an award at NYU. I’m just arm candy.” He smiled, and Spock found it easy to smile back. “She sends her regards.”

He thought of the particular look that Pike’s wife used to give him and the unmistakably forced politeness in her voice when he used to call. “Does she get along with your current assistant?”

“I have two, now, and she mostly gets right around them,” he said, shaking his head. “No one’s ever stood up to her like you did.”

“I’m certain she appreciates that.”

“Not as much as you’d think,” Pike said, sounding wistful. “What about you, Spock? I heard you took a promotion at FWN. Congratulations.”

“Thank you.” The server appeared then to take their orders, and when he had left, Spock wondered how to best describe his own new position. “It has been… an interesting change,” he said, finally.

Pike raised an eyebrow. “Interesting good, or bad?”

“I’m uncertain,” Spock admitted.

“Something you want to talk about?”

This, Spock had always appreciated about Pike. He was direct and honest in his approach: If Spock said no, he would not be offended. If he said yes, he would be a good listener.

“I have found that some of the goals and behaviors of upper management do not match with my own for the network,” Spock said. He took a sip of his wine, and watched Pike sink back into his bench seat.

“You mean, Komack’s an egomaniac with a harassment problem, and his daughter’s got the same ego, less power, and more hunger for it.”

Spock raised an eyebrow. “I thought you did not watch FWN.”

“Everyone needs to watch the weather," he said, smirking. “You have an idea about what to do about it?”

“I do,” Spock said, “though I am, of course, open to suggestions.” He laid out his plan, then, and watched Pike take it in. He didn’t seem troubled or confused, but Spock thought he did look — well, what? Resigned, perhaps.

“Let me get this straight,” Pike said, leaning forward, forearms on the table. “You’re going to change the entire mandate of the network and hope that they don’t notice for long enough that the ratings will stabilize, so that when they do notice that you’ve changed it from a weather network to Climate Change Central, they won’t be able to do anything about it?”

“Essentially, yes,” Spock said. Pike whistled. Their food arrived, and Pike thanked the server, then picked up a fry and ate it. “I believe FWN could be much more, and much more useful, than it is now.”

“Oh, I agree with you,” Pike said, “and that’s about sixty person of the reason your boss hates my guts.”

Spock stirred his soup. “The other forty percent?”

Pike grinned. “Envious of my charm, no doubt.” He took a bite from his sandwich, and Spock watched it drip over his plate. It had not fully occurred to him that Pike might be a valuable ally in this fight, mostly because of the conflict between him and Komack. However, Spock found himself eager for his perception. “Look, you know I think Komack’s been going in the wrong direction for years. He’s been loading you guys up with, I hope you’ll excuse me, some very pretty scenery and not enough real scientists. Financially, he’s propped up by a dozen existing arrangements to provide weather clips to outfits that are gonna be able to do it on their own, soon, given advances in technology, and people don’t need to watch FWN to get their weather or their beautiful blondes anymore.” He took another bite and chewed thoughtfully. Spock sipped his wine. “To me, someone who lives and breathes news, I think your plan sounds great, and I think it’s also dangerous as hell. Even if you succeed with this, Spock, if it looks like you did it behind the Komacks’ backs, they’re going to fire you.”

Spock nodded. “I have considered that possibility.”

Pike shook his head. “They will. They don’t tolerate threats, son, and you’re making yourself into one hell of a big one. Do you have an exit strategy?”

“I could return to research, or teaching.”

Pike raised an eyebrow. “Might pay the bills.”

“My brother is now a billionaire.”

“Yeah? You gonna have him buy out the network?”

Spock shrugged. “I’ve certainly heard worse plans,” he said, and Pike laughed.

“Who else at your network knows?”

“There are four others in the planning group. Five, if you count our graduate intern.”

Pike nodded. “What about Jim Kirk?”

Spock looked away. “I’m uncertain, though I do not believe it would come as any surprise to him.”

“Huh.” He chewed another bite. “I thought you two were friends now.”

The bar wall held several incongruous collections of knick-knacks, and Spock stared at a small mirror shaped like a horseshoe. He thought of Jim joking about telling Pike after the semi-disastrous Christmas with his mother. “The parameters of our association have changed, somewhat.”

“Whoa, the formal language,” Pike said. “I, huh. So you two…”

The server reappeared to make sure their food was good and to see if Spock needed a refill, which he declined. When he’d left, Spock noticed Pike was too focused on his plate.

“Did you have something to say, Christopher?” Spock said, feeling the weight of his unfinished sentence.

Pike looked up with half of a grin, part rueful, part curious. “I thought it was just rumors, about you and Jim, but — “

Spock looked down, quickly, at his own soup. The bowl was white, the soup within brown and thick, and it suddenly seemed like the least edible substance he could have possibly ordered. He poked at it anyway, surfacing a potato and a luminous crescent that might have been celery or fennel. “Rumors often have some kernel of truth.”

“So you seduced him and broke his heart, then?” Pike asked, and Spock could hear the teasing smile in his voice.

He cleared his throat and looked up, just briefly, making a full second of eye contact. “That is not precisely how it happened.”

The potato continued to float in the soup, and Spock thought he detected shreds of meat. He should have asked more about the contents. No one really did vegetarian soup in a bar. “Well, shit,” Pike said. “Spock, I’m sorry. I didn’t realize — hell, I’ve known Jim his whole life, and I’ve never known him to be…”

Now Spock focused on Pike as he seemed to search for the right word. “Serious?” he asked.

Pike shrugged one shoulder. “Jim can be serious. He just usually doesn’t choose to be. I, huh.” He looked down at his steak sandwich, hands resting on the bun but not lifting it. Spock had seen Pike seriously surprised only perhaps once before. Through the many serious breaking news situations they’d covered, through tumultuous elections and savage crimes, he had been unflappable, but revelations of a personal nature had been much more jarring. Perhaps he should have been honored to be in that category, but right now, Spock mostly felt a deep desire for this awkward moment to pass.

Pike sat back in the booth, sandwich now abandoned. “One of the reasons I wanted to talk to you today was actually about Jim,” he said. “Professionally.”

“I see.” Spock pushed his soup away and instead reached for his water glass. “Are you again courting him for a show on FNN?”

“He told you about that, huh? How long were you guys together?”

“Roughly fourteen months,” Spock said, and Pike blinked, then whistled.

“Jesus. That — you know, that actually explains a lot. Did his mother know? Wait, never mind, don’t answer that. I would’ve had an express delivery from Winona if she’d heard Jim was settling down.” He rubbed his hands over his face.

“She knew,” Spock said, “but chose not to, ah, acknowledge the seriousness.“

“Well, this keeps getting better and better.” Pike picked up his drink. “Well. Yeah. I have room for Jim at the network now, if I can talk him into it.” He tipped his head. “I’ve got room for you, too, but it sounds like you’re hell bent on this crusade.”

Spock raised an eyebrow. “If you’re looking for another assistant —“

“Nope. No. I know what you can do and what you’re worth, Spock, and I wouldn’t offer you anything less than that.”

This felt like a balm Spock hadn’t known he needed, just a quick soothing spread of reassurance over a very old wound. “Thank you,” he said. “I’m heartened to hear that you’ve changed your mind about my on-air abilities.”

Pike frowned. “What? Changed my mind?”

Spock started to feel embarrassed that he’d even mentioned this. “I believe you had earlier expressed some doubt about my fit for an on-camera job.”

Pike stared at him for a second, then flinched. “Oh, holy shit, you’re not that dumb. I didn’t say — what, Spock, you thought I said you had a face for radio? Jesus.” Pike huffed, leaning forward suddenly, elbows on either side of his sandwich platter. “That is not what I meant. You’re great on camera. You get the science and you break it down cleanly, without dumbing it down, and you make it all look effortless. You’ve got the looks, you’ve got the voice, you’ve got a great poker face and an overall confident ease that shows you’re absolutely in command. People will always want to tune in to you, the way they wanted to see the great newsmen of old, because you’re knowledgeable and calm and steady, Spock.”

“I — thank you. I —“

“The reason I thought you should give FWN a long second look wasn’t because I didn’t think you were good enough to go on air for them. I don’t think they’re good enough for you.” He paused, remembering his sandwich, apparently, and while he took a bite, Spock tried to assimilate what he’d just heard. He hadn’t managed it by the time Pike set his sandwich back down.

“There are basically two kinds of on-air talent,” he said, dragging a fry through ketchup. “There are expert journalists, really good at their jobs, at getting the facts and explaining them, who can also light up a screen. And there are people who really want to be stars, who thrive on camera and let the reporting serve that desire. I’ve worked with plenty of the latter.”

“That is unfortunate.”

“No, it’s fine,” Pike said, finally chewing his fry. “It’s — it sounds self-centered, but you can want to be a television star and still believe in the power and responsibility of the news division.” He tipped his head for a moment, looking at Spock. “But the ones who want to be a star wake up in the morning wanting to be on air. They’ll pick being on camera every single time it’s offered. I don’t think that’s you.”

“No," Spock agreed.

“Appearances to the contrary, I don’t think that’s Jim, either.”

Spock started to agree, and then stopped. He remembered their small fight in Montana and how he’d perhaps implied that Jim did seek out the camera a bit too much. In reality, he did agree with Pike. Jim wasn’t drawn to television for the attention, though he certainly enjoyed it more than Spock ever would. He was a scientist, an explorer, at heart.

God, Spock missed him.

“Well,” Pike said, breaking into a silence Spock hadn’t meant to let linger, “that offer still stands, if you want to switch back. Anytime, Spock. You have my number.”

“I do appreciate it. If I manage to survive the transitions ahead at FWN, though, I believe I will be needed there.” Pike nodded, sanguine. “As to Jim, I believe, though I am not currently privy to his thoughts, that your proposal would be much better received this time around.”

Pike sipped his drink. “He hates the morning.”

“Indeed. I don’t think that’s a secret.”

“No,” Pike said. “Woke up in time to watch for myself the other day.” He shook his head as though reliving a bad memory. “But Jim hasn’t traditionally been willing to leave one imperfect situation for another, and I haven’t quite been able to find the right lure for him. And please, speak frankly.”

“He will want to travel,” Spock said. “If you are willing to take a risk on him, then you need to take the actual risk, instead of trying to make him a typical behind-the-desk anchor.”

Pike frowned. “I’ve got enough special assignment correspondents, though, and he’s not qualified to be on a foreign beat.”

“No,” Spock said, “but his talent is for excellent performance under pressure. Offer him a few of those situations, away from the office.”

“How?”

Spock shrugged. “I am certain you can find a way.”

“Maybe so,” Pike said.

They wrapped up their lunch amiably after that, and Spock saw Pike into one car before catching his own. He thought about Jim leaving for Atlanta and how that would feel, and he couldn’t quite convince himself that a bit of distance would help anything. McCoy was right: he wasn’t coping well.

But he didn’t want to, yet, either. What he wanted, really, was just to work, to get back to the perfect focus on his work, on the weather and climate, that he had somehow maintained through nearly every other emotional change in his life. Coupling with T’Pring in graduate school had never had an impact on his ability to work, not the first night they pressed awkwardly against one another in the narrow bedroom of her rented, shared house, nor on the final night, when he had pulled his clothing back on and she had admitted that she’d never pictured a future for them beyond the approaching graduation ceremonies. Sleeping with Nyota had required no additional energy from him beyond deploying more frequent questions about the path of her day, and when things had ended, he had simply rerouted himself toward his own apartment. Being with Jim, though — it had changed his available attention, somehow. He thought of work, and then he thought of how much better his own work was when he was throwing ideas around with Jim listening. He thought of going home, and he missed Jim’s presence, his unpredictable but brilliant mind. It was harder to work when he was around, undeniably; but now, it was harder to work without him, too.


	22. Chapter 22

He continued to work. His friends made efforts — McCoy came in and grumbled at him more often, T’Pring forwarded him interesting articles and calls for papers, and Nyota started making him join her for activities that required him to leave the building, “just to make sure you still can.” In between, he dodged increasingly pointed invitations from Harrison to visit about his new position over drinks, tried to keep Karen both happy and as far away from his meetings as possible, and sometimes called his family.

At least the days passed quickly.

It was at one of his enforced outings with Nyota, to a gym that she had insisted he needed to join, where he learned that the rumor of Jim’s imminent departure had begun to spread. Spock was not caught unaware this time; he’d had a text from Pike a few days before: _Thanks for the tips w/Kirk_ , alongside a thumbs-up emoji.

Still, it took some effort to school his features into something approaching neutrality when, over “power bowls” in the pretentious gym cafe, Nyota said, “So there’s a rumor that Kirk is moving to FNN. Have you heard anything about that?”

She said Jim’s name like a curse, with suspicion. Spock leaned back on his wobbly stool, pushing his plain oat topping over the chalky mix of yogurt and fruit powder. “Yes. I believe that is likely to be accurate.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Did you actually talk to him?”

“No,” he admitted, and added silently, _and now I’ll never have to again_. FWN had some interactions with FNN for major events or holidays or emergencies, but they didn’t share much in the way of personnel. While FBN (the main broadcasting network) shared space with FWN in their New York offices, FNN stayed rooted mostly in Atlanta. Jim would be states away. Spock thought that should probably feel good.

It didn’t.

Nyota was looking at him, her gaze too perceptive. “Spock…” she started.

He stood up, quickly, the bamboo stool making a grating noise against the polished concrete floor. “I believe I will drop in on the martial arts class,” he said, collecting his still-full food from the tray. “I will see you at the office.”

* * *

Two weeks later, when the official announcement was made, Spock was well on his way to achieving his first certification in a recently rediscovered martial art called Suus Mahna. It required rigorous attention to one’s own movement and breathing, to the exclusion of all other thoughts. Imagined as a defensive art, it helped the practitioner create a cocoon of space around himself, safety through motion and attention. Spock found it centering, and he tried to recapture some of that feeling by taking a few deep breaths as he entered an empty studio that afternoon where everyone had been told to wait for an announcement. He pictured it around him: a bubble, a carefully crafted boundary through which anything that tried to upset his equilibrium would be sent away, wounded.

His crew — his former crew, since he didn’t really have his own show so much anymore — had taken seats halfway up the bleachers built for a live television audience. Spock joined the team quietly, taking a seat next to Stonn and above Nyota and T’Pring. Chekov hurried in a moment later and took the seat to Spock’s left, boxing him in. Well, that was of no concern. It wasn’t like Spock was going to get up and make a scene. The stands were nearly full. Spock purposely did not look for Jim in the crowd. _Deep breaths_ , he thought. _Centered and focused. Protected_. His team was around him, allowed in the bubble, their presence soothing.

Admiral Komack himself was present, standing on the stage, blustering and pink in the face. Spock knew from the rumor mill (as reported by Nyota) that he was attempting to spin this as a victory, as though Jim’s promotion were due to FWN’s rising status in the world. Spock knew — even if Karen would never admit it — that losing Jim was a loss for the entire weather network. Not only was his onscreen presence a draw, both live and in their online clips, but his ability to speak knowledgeably about weather and climate science on air was also an enormous asset.

“Today we’re giving a grand FWN send-off to one of our own,” Komack began. “A man who scarcely needs an introduction, but I’ll give him a hell of one anyway. Jim Kirk…” Spock tuned out most of his speech, which sounded half like a eulogy, half like a commencement address. He kept his focus on the screen just behind Komack, blank and innocuous, no roiling radar maps or confusing temperature breakouts in sight. In his office, two articles waited for his attention and contribution. The weekend schedule wasn’t clearly set yet for most of the evening shows. A tropical wave had just formed that would need monitoring. There was so much work to do, and yet he couldn’t quite keep his focus on it. His bubble was collapsing, just slightly, as it always did when Jim was around.

Finally, Komack said, “So let’s have a hearty FWN round of applause for our own Jim Kirk!”

People clapped immediately. It surprised Spock, enough that he jumped slightly and wasn’t looking whenever Jim made his way to the stage. It didn’t matter. Spock clapped too slowly, eyes caught on Jim, drinking him in. They hadn’t been in the same room since Jim had walked out. In between, he’d seen him on television, of course, and a few times in a regrettable scan through old candid photos sent from their joint trip to Louisiana.

On the morning show, Jim looked well-made up, dressed in suits built to look casual that, on Jim, actually looked stiff and unpleasant. He bantered with his much-less-intelligent colleagues and presented stories remotely, interacted with lively crowds, and generally looked like a very well built and maintained human-like robot.

On stage, now, he looked… fine. No, Spock thought, he looked good. Alive. He wore close-fit jeans and a button-down black shirt, sleeves rolled just up his forearms, sunglasses pushed into his hair. It wasn’t something he’d wear on air, but it was clearly more effort than his kick-around-town clothing. He waved off the applause and bowed, once, melodramatically, and Spock realized he was gripping his own hands too tightly. Stonn shifted restlessly, and Spock dropped his hands into his lap, willing them to relax.

Jim cleared his throat away from the mic. “There’s not much to say, is there?” Spock could only look at him in small increments, staring, then away, afraid that if he looked too long it would begin to burn, like gazing at an eclipse. “I’m gonna miss the hell out of you guys. It’s been a great trip — an honor, really, working with you all, surviving some serious shit together, yeah, hey, Olson, glad you’re still alive.” Olson, in the front row, threw up both hands, cheering, and everyone laughed. “It’s Atlanta, not the moon, people. Don’t be strangers. The work we do here — it’s vital. People need to know more about their world, the climate, not just what it’s like outside but what it will be. You’re — well. You know. You know what we do. Keep on doing it, all right?” Though his head had swiveled carefully to include the entire audience, Spock realized he had never gazed in Spock’s own direction. They were mutually avoiding one another.

As Jim started to step down, to cut a rectangular cake with his photo pasted on the top, McCoy leapt to the stage and grabbed the mic. “Last but not least, maybe most important, you’re all invited to help us see him off in real style this evening. Come by starting in an hour, the bar downstairs. First drink’s on Jim, the bastard, for abandoning us.”

Everyone laughed and cheered again, then began to break up to wander down for cake. Spock stayed frozen for a moment too long, until Stonn nudged him with his knee. “Back to work?” he asked.

“Yes, of course,” Spock said. He stayed tightly within the clump of his team, who had all apparently developed an aversion to cake, and they made it to the studio doorway before they were stopped.

“Hey.” Sulu, not Jim. “Listen, you guys gotta come tonight. OK? Chapel’s gonna be so pissed if you don’t, and we’ve even got Scotty coming in.” His smile was wide, hopeful, and Spock saw his crew nodding. It made sense. They had been friendly with Jim, had gotten to know and trust his team. Of course they would want to join them again, even if it was only this once.

He said as much as they rode the elevator back to their offices. Spock did not get out with them, just sent them off, his blessing to go to Jim’s party both heartfelt and painful to offer. Nyota gave him a pitying shake of her head as the doors closed, and Spock leaned back against the wall, allowing himself a short sigh.

He did not want to go to any bar, but in particular, he did not want to go that bar, where everything had started. Even from the distance of the stage tonight, Spock had been surprised by how much, how intensely, he still wanted Jim. Tonight, when Spock felt his own emotions were running hotter than usual, didn’t seem like a good time to torture himself. Logically, he should log out from his work, pick up his messenger bag, and leave. Take a car back to the apartment. Call for delivery. Call his father, perhaps, to catch up, or send Sybok a message string long enough to guarantee a response. Any of those options would make sense.

Instead, he went back to his office, told Nyota by text that he was completing model research and would not be offended in the least if she attended the party, and then pulled out the portrait of the Lightning Fields that had been hiding behind his bookshelf. It was still wrapped in the old blanket he’d used to keep it safe during transport however many weeks ago. He propped it against the blank wall and knew, again, that he’d never actually hang it up. The picture was barely important anymore except for the visceral, painful memory of Jim giving it to him, of Jim curled up and comfortable in his apartment — briefly, their apartment — for a Christmas holiday.

Spock drew down the bottle of bourbon he’d bought for McCoy and opened it. He still did not like the taste, but he had nothing more appropriate to the moment. Pouring a splash into a coffee mug, he toasted the picture, briefly, and then swallowed the contents of the mug as quickly as he could.

When the knock fell on his door, he’d taken a seat in the dark, facing the picture but reading quietly on his phone. The mug — used a few times since — sat to his right, in too-easy reach, and he almost knocked it over in surprise at the sound.

“Yes, come in,” he said, genuinely surprised. No one knocked on his office door.

No one but Jim, apparently.

“Hey,” he said, stepping inside and sliding the door closed behind him.

Spock sat up straighter, wishing he hadn’t turned off the lights earlier. Streaks of reflected light from outside cast a pale gray glow over the room, and he nearly had to squint to see Jim’s guarded expression. “Hello.”

Jim nodded. He wore the same outfit as before but looked more worn and, Spock could admit, more attractive. The triangle of visible skin at Jim’s throat seemed to glow in the darkness, and Spock made himself look away.

“Are you not supposed to be at the celebration?”

“Maybe. I guess.” Jim rubbed a hand up through the back of his hair, then sighed and leaned against the wall by the door. “This is your new office, huh? Bones said it was like an Apple store or something.”

“Jim,” Spock said, and then he wasn’t sure what else to say. For the past few months, he had wanted nothing more than to have Jim walk through the door, and now he had and Spock didn’t know what to say.

“Are you drinking alone?” he asked, gesturing to the bottle on the desk and Spock’s nearly empty mug.

“Not if you will join me.”

Jim smiled, just slightly. Spock stood to pull down a second mug, and while his back was turned, Jim said, “Are you seeing anyone?”

Spock’s hand shook as he reached for the bottle. “I believe that’s none of your business.”

“Yeah. I know. Yeah. That’s — fine.” He sighed, again, so loud and clearly exasperated that Spock nearly smiled. Same old Jim, impatient and demanding.

“I am not seeing anyone, nor have I done so since we parted,” Spock said, impressed that his hand stayed steady as he poured first Jim’s drink, then another for himself. He set the mug on the desk instead of handing it over directly, then took a seat on the couch, deliberately not facing the picture now. Jim leaned back against his desk, so they were facing each other with about five feet between them. It was, at once, too much space and not enough.

Spock looked as close to Jim’s face as he dared as he asked, “How is Ms. Ciana?”

“Lori?” Jim frowned, eyes slightly wide. “Uh, I’m sure she’s… fine? She’s starting a new PR firm, I joined up with her a few weeks ago. But why…”

Spock looked down at his own drink, trying to put those pieces together, and heard Jim sigh.

“I’m gonna kill him," Jim said, quietly. “Bones is such a fucking gossip.”

“I believe he only wanted to make sure I didn’t hear from anyone else," Spock said.

“There was _nothing to hear_ ,” Jim said, shaking his head. “We, seriously, she’s just starting a new firm. That’s it. I did her a favor. We went to dinner to talk about it, and I gave her Sam’s number. Ugh, my god.” He rubbed his hands over his face. “I haven’t dated anyone since you.”

Spock nodded, dumbly, not sure what he could say. A fluttering, vicious little hope began to warm in his chest, and he was afraid to move and kill it. “You did ask first,” he finally managed, letting the bourbon talk.

Jim snorted. “Right, I guess so.” He took a sip of his drink and winced at the end of it. “You _have_ been spending time with Bones.”

“I’m feeling quite justified in drinking this instead of making a gift of it, at the moment,” Spock said, and Jim smiled.

They sipped in just barely uncomfortable quite for a moment, and then Jim shifted, looking past Spock, and said, “So, Pike says you’re taking over the whole station.”

“As he is responsible for taking away my main competition for any megalomaniacal action —“

“Hey!” Jim said, but he laughed, and it made Spock smile.

“There are certain plans in motion, yes,” Spock granted.

“Mmhm. As we covered, Bones has a big mouth, so I’m pretty caught up. And on board,” Jim said. “Can’t do much from the new gig, I know, but if there is anything —“

Spock inclined his head. “Of course. Thank you.” He swallowed too much from his own mug and fought back a cough. “Will you be taking any of your crew?”

“If I have my say, eventually, I’ll get all of them,” Jim said. “I’d extend that to your people if I thought they’d ever switch teams. Actually, if you’re done with him, I might take Chekov first.”

Spock shrugged. “His internship was completed months ago. We’ve kept him on as a research associate, but I’m certain he’d enjoy the challenge.”

“Good.” Jim swallowed back the rest of his mug, and then grabbed the bottle to pour himself more. Spock was glad.

Spock held out his own mug. As Jim poured, he asked, “Jim, why did you come by tonight?”

“I dunno. Honestly.” Once Spock took back his cup, Jim closed the bottle and returned it to its shelf, then leaned against the desk again. He studied his own mug for a moment. “I didn’t want to, uh. I didn’t want to leave with things. Uh.” He ran one hand over his face. “Jesus, this sucks.”

 _It does_ , Spock thought, and then set down his own mug. He looked down at his own hands. “Why did you come?”

Jim set his mug down, then walked over to the photograph, staring down at it from close up. “I was. Spock. I was mad, but I didn’t — I didn’t mean, I didn’t want to end things. I —“

“You did not come back,” Spock said, reasonably, surprised at the evenness of his own voice. His fingers gripped the chair’s arm tightly, tingling with tension. “Forgive me if I assumed that was meant as a sign.”

Jim sighed. “Yeah, well. I guess — it’s all for the best, anyway, right? I’m moving, and you’re —“ He waved a hand around, though Spock couldn’t imagine what he was gesturing to, exactly.

“Not?” Spock said.

“You’re moving up,” Jim said. He finally turned around, which let Spock see his face again. His expression was one of near confusion, something a bit bright and fake. “I mean, it’s not like we set out to be serious.”

“No,” Spock said, quietly.

Jim nodded. He crossed back over to the desk and picked up his drink, then raised it in front of him. “Well, here’s to moving up,” he said, and Spock picked up his own mug to match Jim. The liquor tasted worse than ever. He thought he would probably never develop an actual taste for it, but the painful burn was better than admitting his eyes might be watering for other reasons.

“You know,” Jim said, and then paused and shook his head.

“Yes?”

Jim nodded, again, as though Spock had asked a real question. “Oh. I just, I was going to say — you know, you could come with me.”

Spock narrowed his eyes. “Please explain.”

Jim shrugged. “It’s my show. I get some picks. There’s an EP already, some Nogura guy that Pike’s buddies with, but I don’t have anyone else. I’m supposed to spend the next six months figuring out my staff and waiting out the non-compete clause.”

Spock looked up at Jim. “What would you have me do, exactly? You do not need a co-anchor, nor is that a job I desire.”

“No, I know,” Jim said. “I don’t know, really. I just know — whatever’s happened, whatever we are to each other, we make a great team.”

Spock nodded, slowly. “We do.”

“Good.” Jim lifted his glass in a toast. “So think on it, then. Just promise me — you’ll think on it, and we’ll talk about it, sometime before I’ve got to go on air with this show.”

“I promise,” Spock said, and then he drained his own refilled mug. That time, he couldn’t avoid coughing, and Jim laughed at him (though hoarse from his own drink). “I am still unused to hard liquor,” Spock admitted.

“Good, that means you haven’t been spending too much time with Bones.” Jim set his mug down on Spock’s desk and stood, and Spock’s stomach suddenly fell. Was he getting ready to leave? “I mean it, you know.”

“I do,” Spock said, staring at the mug instead of Jim’s face, not willing to see his own sadness reflected there. Jim was leaving — leaving _again_ , and it hurt. It still hurt. He saw no need to prolong that. “I wish you every good fortune with your new work. I have every confidence that it will be…” Spock stopped, sighed. “You will be great.”

“Thank you,” Jim said. “From you, that means something.” He took a deep breath, then Spock heard him walk around the couch. His hand fell briefly, too briefly, on Spock’s shoulder. “Bye, Spock. Think about Atlanta, OK?”

“Of course.” Jim’s wistful tone seemed to say what neither of them would — that this was good-bye, that Spock would not move to Atlanta. He had a duty to FWN, to his team and their projects. He no longer had a duty to Jim.

He heard the door close, and he sat in the darkness of his office thinking. It would make no sense to consider Jim’s offer. It had likely been made from nostalgia, or politeness — though Spock had never known Jim to dwell particularly in the past or to make empty gestures. He did things he meant. He —

He’d left his own party to see Spock.

He still missed him.

Spock sprang up, knocking over his drink in the process, and bolted out of his office. The elevator was around the next corner, and he tore around it, expecting to see Jim waiting for the elevator or, worse, an empty space where he had been. Instead, halfway down the hall, he saw Jim leaning back against the wall, one hand pressed to his forehead, as though contemplating something distressing. He looked up at what must have been the sound of Spock’s arrival.

“Spock?”

He crossed to Jim in two steps, cupped his face before he’d even stopped moving. Jim’s hands rested immediately on his shoulders, and then they were kissing. It was different than Spock remembered, more desperate, needy, Jim clutching him and pressing immediately against him. He tasted like Spock’s liquor and maybe cake, and he laughed when he pulled back.

“So you’ll think about it?” he said.

Spock nodded, catching Jim’s lip again between his. Jim brought his hands up to cover Spock’s. “It seems likely that I will never stop thinking about it. About… you,” he said, quietly, looking down at Jim’s hands.

“Thank fucking god,” Jim said, and kissed him again.

“Come home with me,” Spock whispered when they broke apart again. “Jim, come home.”

“Yeah,” he said, eyes seeming to well briefly with tears. “Let’s go.”


	23. End/Epilogue

Spock leaned against the railing of the small, screened-in porch. In the dry yard just beyond, dust swirled in encouraging eddies, and he could already see a gathering of dark clouds on the horizon. His attention wasn’t focused on the weather for once, though: he was instead focused on the small screen of his phone, playing a clip of Jim’s show.

The show, after a year on air, had found its footing — and then taken off at a sprint. Jim was charming, intelligent, and a bit brash. He conducted thoughtful interviews, traveled to global hot spots, and explained complex problems easily. In Jim, FNN had found its first major break-out star, someone people turned to not just for newsreading but for reporting and analysis, a trusted name.

Spock had made the leap to Atlanta with him, cutting it close to the start of the show. He’d had to wrap up some loose ends at FWN, some of which had led to his being fired, loudly, by Karen Komack during a nightly team meeting. (Thanks to Sybok’s lawyers and their work on his contract, the abrupt dismissal had made Spock a multi-millionaire overnight). When he’d left that evening, his entire team had left with him, and none of them had ever thought to question their welcome on Jim’s newly assembling crew. Two months later, a series of well-sourced stories by Abigail Collier about the hostile work environment at FWN had led to both Admiral Komack and his daughter being terminated by the network; when Pike had been offered management of both areas, he’d finished cleaning house by making sure John Harrison left without any good reference.

Though Spock could have gone back to running whatever he wanted at FWN after that, he’d stayed with Jim instead. Together, they ran a full-hour, nightly news program now, _The Final Frontier_. Spock still worked on camera for climate-related stories, particularly about his new global-standard model, but he mostly oversaw the behind-the-scenes editorial duties. T’Pring had landed softly as a climate correspondent for the network, and she and Stonn — still based in New York — had produced a series of globe-trotting packages about the effects of everything from plastics in the water supply to food chain problems in the Middle East. Nyota had already revolutionized the social media efforts. Chekov would probably have his own show someday, though Sulu would beat him to it.

Jim was the star and the executive editor; nothing went to air without his OK, but Spock had nearly blanket authority on all show decisions. It had worked out surprisingly well for them, if the ratings and their own improved personal relationship were anything to go by.

On-screen, T’Pring explained the unique phenomenon that had brought a tennis match of some importance to an abrupt stop. Then the camera switched to Jim, sitting at the smooth white-glass anchor desk of his own show, and he nodded.

“That sounds like a story that could use some follow up,” he said, with an easy television grin. “Do you think that’s something you might be able to tell us more about, say, next week?”

“I will check my calendar, Dr. Kirk,” T’Pring said, but she allowed a corner of her mouth to lift in a smile. The audience might not know it yet, but Spock did: she would be sitting in for Jim for the entire next week, her first full anchoring stint with FNN.

“Very good. Let’s do that," Jim said, then gave the camera his full, straight-on attention, leaning forward on his forearms slightly. “So if we’ve got T’Pring in here next week, do you guys even need me?” He grinned, leaving just enough space for a laugh. “All right, well, that’s our show tonight. Normally, I’d see you back on Monday, but for the first time since this show started a year ago, I’m going to be out of the anchor seat for all of next week. T’Pring really will be seeing you through.” Now Jim’s smile into the camera slanted just a little, his eyes crinkling in a way that meant real emotion was coming through. “Before you accuse me of skipping out to find a spring break party, though, a bit of personal news: I’ll be out next week for my honeymoon, because this weekend, I get to marry the wildly brilliant, gorgeous, occasionally infuriating, and I’m told long-suffering love of my life, Spock Grayson.

“In case you’ve been following along at home or on my mother’s insufferable social media, we’ve been together for nearly two disaster-filled years now. There’s literally no one else that I’d want by my side through any of this — not the work we do on-screen, not the research and reporting that happens before the show, and not in my life beyond the camera.” As Jim spoke, a montage — put together by the staff — of clips of the two of them in the same shot ran on screen. Spock was particularly partial to one that showed Jim, at his anchor desk, bent forward with laughter while Spock gazed down at him, smugly amused. “Sweetheart, sorry for embarrassing you with all that, and I’ll see you soon. For the rest of you — good night, stay safe, and I’ll see you in about a week.”

The screen faded into the intro for the next pre-taped show, and Spock rolled his eyes at himself, feeling that his face was a bit warm. Once Spock had left FWN, he and Jim had made no effort to hide the romantic nature of their relationship. Still, many viewers had learned about it that evening nearly a week ago, when Jim had taped this segment at the end of his show, and Spock did not relish being the center of that type of attention.

Then again, he’d wanted a statement.

Two arms slid around his waist from behind, and Jim looked over to see what he was watching. “Hey, my favorite viral video. You helping me rack up some views there -” he paused, and Spock could feel Jim’s grin even through the cloth of his shirt, “ _sweetheart_?”

Spock put away his phone and sighed. He crossed his arms, affecting more annoyance than he felt.

”I could’ve gone with ‘sunshine,'” Jim murmured, his mouth dragging briefly over the nape of Spock’s neck. “Honey? Baby!”

“Suddenly, I have some regrets about last weekend,” Spock said, stifling an intake of breath when Jim’s fingers slid beneath his shirt.

“Uh-huh. Me too, sweetheart,” Jim said, almost absently, one of his hands now hovering at the button of Spock’s fly. “I’m still disappointed there was no white dress.”

“You would have looked charming in that,” Spock said, and then turned in Jim’s arms to kiss him. When he drew back, Jim looked appropriately dazed. “Of course, I know _wearing_ the dress is not precisely your kink. Perhaps you would have loaned it to me for the wedding night…”

“Oooh, baby,” Jim said, and Spock found himself pressed back against the railing. “I take it back, you’re the best.”

Thunder rumbled in the distance, and Spock smiled against Jim’s mouth. “Patience,” he said, and then, after a pause, “sweetheart.”

Jim laughed, kissed him, and then drew back far enough that Spock could turn again. They stood side-by-side, arms pressed together, and stared out at the field of lightning rods before them. In clear weather, it was a bizarre, almost useless-looking scene, just rows of glass-encased polls dug into the dusty ground. The approaching storm, though, would likely light the entire area up, just as it had the day before, shortly after their arrival.

They’d chosen this installation for the first two nights of their honeymoon. The other five nights would be spent at Sybok’s cabin on Lake Tahoe, which he had tried and so far failed to give them as a wedding present. (The tax burden alone was obscene).

That they would take time off to get married, and even more so to celebrate afterward, had surprised their crew. McCoy had joked more than once that he was surprised they hadn’t snuck the ceremony into the 40s, just before Jim’s traditional sign off. But after Jim’s hideously informal and perfectly _Jim_ proposal, Spock had surprised himself by wanting a wedding that made a statement, that would allow for them to celebrate openly and lavishly with everyone who had been close to them both throughout their long courtship. Jim had agreed, his only request being that his mother have no say in the guest list.

Beyond that, their one night of apologies and make-up sex just before Jim’s departure for Atlanta had let Spock in on a few closely held secrets. Spock had told Jim, in not so many words, about the gnawing, aching fear of exposing to anyone how deeply he felt anything, as the last person he had trusted and loved completely had been so suddenly killed. Jim, in turn had shared that he could always handle Spock’s shyness, and his desire for privacy, but the idea of coming in second to _work_ was a bit too bitterly familiar.

Talking it out hadn’t fixed everything, but it had made things better. Spock knew he still sounded cold and detached, even when he cared deeply about what he was addressing; Jim still made rash decisions that Spock sometimes found unprofessional, in part to show that he was about more than just work or a job or a cause. But they were better together, for better or worse.

Requesting a week off from work, a lavish ceremony, and a public statement had been Spock’s wedding gift to Jim, in many ways. The video proof of Jim calling Spock “the love of my life” on national television had been Jim’s back to him.

And then last Saturday, after a year of planning, they’d wed in a too-large ceremony on the grounds of Spock’s father’s home, and after a long night of drinking and dancing, they’d slipped away on Sybok’s jet to a waiting reservation at the lightning fields in New Mexico.

The night before, they’d sipped wine in the deck chairs and watched the storm roll in, the hair on Spock’s arms standing up as the lightning began. It had been perfect, and now, tonight, Spock wanted more. It was terrifying and liberating and _wonderful_ to realize that his own partner was now more interesting, more attractive, and more enthralling than even these wicked displays of nature.

Next to him, Jim stared out at the approaching storm, his eyes wide, his attention rapt. Jim, his _husband_. Spock swallowed, hiding a grin, and Jim looked over.

“Checking me out? Buyer’s remorse?”

“None,” Spock said, perhaps a little hoarsely, and Jim reached over and drew him close.

“Good,” he said, and stepped in closer, turning his back on the storm to face Spock fully. Everything Spock was feeling, he saw reflected right back at him. “I love you, too.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Somewhere, I have the five drafts I wrote and tore up of the scene mentioned here with Karen and the lawsuit, but... it got too far into details even for me. Maybe I'll make it an outtake sometime!
> 
> Thanks if you've read this far! The pet name at the end is entirely inspired by the collection of stories that used it -- thank you to the Hey Sweetheart people for that inspiration!


End file.
